
Book.. . . . u . 

CopightlN^ 



CfiE£RICHT DEPOSm 




THE POETS 



RY OF TE 




Biographical Sketches of the Poets of Texas, 

WITH SELECTIONS I ROM 'niElR WRITINGS, 



CONTAINING 



REVIEWS BOTH PERSONAL AND CRITICAL. 



MY ^ 

SAM H. dtxon; 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION HY WM. CAREY CUANR, U.D., LL.D. 

Late Presidcni of liayJnr Univeriiity. 



Some road to think, these are rare; some to write, those are common; and some read 

to talk, and those form the sreat majority. The llrst papo of an author not un- 

frequently suffices all the purposes of tliis latter class, of whom it has been 

said, they treat books as some do lords, they inform themselves of 

their titles, and then boast of an intimate acquaintance.— Colton. 



Sold by SubscHption oiili 



AUSTIN, TEXAS, 
Sam II. Dixon & Co., Puhlisubrb. 

188.5. 




^ 






OOPyRIOHTED 1885, ]JY 

SAM H. DIXON. 



Stcrcotitiied and J'fintud bi/ 

Eugene Von Bokckmann, 
AUSTIN, rax AS. 



HOUND BY 

It. Von Bokckmann, 

AUSTIN, TEXAS. 



TO 



MY DEAR WIFE. 



A 

(JIlA'rKFlIL HFA'OlA.ECriON 

OK IIKH MANY A(JTS <)V KINDNESS EXTIIN 1)101) To M 10 

r)UllIN(J MY STUDENT DAYS AT 

JiA YL, OR UmVEiMSilVY^ 

WniLK I'UI'II'AIMNC; TO KN'i'Klt dl'ON TIIK ilVUOlil) VVALIvS OK I^IJ.'ll!, 

AND TI[E CHEBRINO ENCOURAGEMENT 

WHrnil SITE CAVE ME 

WHILE EN(JA(iKD IN THE I'llEPARATION OF THIS WORK 

INSPIRE THE WISFI TO (ilVK 

EXPRESSION 

OK MY KXAi/rVA) ESTIMATE OF HER 

PURITY AND NOBILITY 

OK (;ilAKA(TER, 

1 thmetQjre XnscvihB io< hex tbise ¥Q>iiam&t 

SAM II. DlXOiV. 






CONTENTS. 



Adenheim 81 

Afflick, Mrs Mary Hunt, ....-- ]5 

After-a-Whilo "- - - 71 

Alamo, Hymn of -------- 233 

Al-Lannee ---------- 74. 

All Quiet Along Potomac ------ 65 

Aradatos ---------- 199 

Arlington, Allied W., ------- 22 

Badger, Mrs. E. M. - - - - - - - - 30 

Battle, The --------- 209 

Battle Hymn --------- 192 

Beauchamp, Jennie Bland, ------ 351 

Beautiful Snow --------- 343 

Bentley, Mrs. M. J., ------- 357 

Beside the Dead - - - - ----- - 189 

Bitter-Sweet - - - 185 

Birds of Passage -------- 313 

Book of Life - -------- 123 

Bowen, W. A., -------- - 357 

Burial of Gen. Tom Green ------ 93 

Cake of Soap --------- 253 

Christmas in Camp- ..----- 188 

Cleopatra ---------- 323 

City, The - - - 278 

Cosmostoria -.- - - - - - - - - 220 

Cummings, Stephen, ------- 358 

Darden, Mrs. Fannie l>aker, - - Portrait - - 45 

Daughter of Mendoza - - 178 

Davis, Mollie Moore, - - - Portrait - - 34 

Daylight on tlie Wreck .19 

Death 268 

Dirge 159 

Drifting - - 85 107 

Dreaming 57 



Contents. 



Dreams . . . 28 

Dream of Jno. D. Lee ------- 270 

Dress to Make - - - - 100 

Dying Soldier, The - 289 

Efnor, Lottie C., - - 56 

Elliott Jno. P., - . . 356 

Evening Rumble -------- 147 

Farewell to Texas -------- 805 

Filial Piety --------- 240 

First Fallen Soldier of 18(51 ------ 222 

Flowers ...------- 32 

Fontaine, Lamar, ----- Portrait - 59 

Forshey, E. L., - - - - - - - - 357 

Fountain, The -------- 105 

Franklin, Miss Willie, - - .* - - - - 70 

Furloughed Soldier ------- 139 

Garnered Memory -------- 153 

Garrison, Geo. P., ------- 77 

Gates Ajar ---------- 1(> 

Gay, J. L., - . - 353 

Gerald, Miss Florenc, ------- 80 

Gilleland, W. M., ------- - 92 

Gillespie, Helena, - - 98 

Girl With Calico Dress ------- 168 

Giradeau, Miss --------- 353 

Going Out and Coming In ----- - 36 

Golden Opportunity - - - 277 

Gordon, Mrs. R. L.', - 353 

Grand-Mother's Baby .---..- 51 

Grieve Not for Me - - - - - - - - 180 

Greeting to Hood's Brigade ------ 349 

Grithn, Mrs. T. M., - 103 

Give to the Poet His Praise ------ 179 

Guillot, Miss May E., - - 355 

Hamlett, Mrs, Lizzie, _ . . Portrait - - 110 

Harby, Mrs. Lee C, - 120 

Haunted - - - 104 

He Sings Because He Can But Sing . - - - 88 

Hobby, A. M., 125 

Hogg, Thos. E., 134 

Hope - - 202 

Hollow by the Flare 186 



Home Scene --.....__ ;-jGO 

Hood's Last Charge --.._.. 212 

Houston's Address at San Jacinto . - . . . 321 

Houston, Mrs. Gen. Sam, - - - Portrait - 142 

Houston, Nettie Power, --..--. 149 

Houston, Sam, - - - - - - - - 356 

Hutchins, J. H., - - - - - - - - 158 

Johnson, Ella A., - - - - - - - - 357 

Jordan, Mrs. Clara B., ---._.. 353 

Josselyn, Robert, -------- 164 

Julian, I. H., - - - 354 

Just So - - - - - . - ^ . . 205 

Kerr, Hugh, - - - - - - * - - - 171 

Lamar, Mirabeau, - - - - - Portrait - 174 

Lamar, Death of -------- - 176 

Land Far Away -._.-.-- 108 

Last Tear I Shed - . » - . . . . . 169 

Leachman, Mrs. WelthaB., ------ 184 

Leaveli, Miss Lizzie Smith, ------ 351 

Leaving Home - -- 310 

Lee at the W'ilderness --.-.__ 39 

La Madra de La Canyon --.,-. 257 

Lloyd, Miss VVilla, ' - - - . - - - - - 188 

Life and Death . - - 26 

Life's Brevity ---..-..- 310 

Life's Gayer Hour -------- 182 

Lilies ----- . - - . - 18 

Lines 317 

Little Babies . - - 151 

Little Relics 208 

Louisa ----.----. 225 

Love Knot --------- 250 

Lubbock, Death of -------- 128 

Lucre's Advice to His Son ------ 161 

Luther, Dr. J. H., - - - - - - - - 191 

Marble Lily --------- 335 

Manning, Elegy on 345 

Maternity 118 

Maynard, Mrs. Sallie Ballard - - - - - - 196 

McCaleb, Mary Hunt, - - - . Portrait - 204 

McE;achern, R. B., - 214 

Minding the Gap ---.-... 42 



Mohl, Mrs. A. H., 357 

Monson, A. C, -------- 354 

Mother to Departed Child ------- 297 

Murphy. John Albert . . - - Portrait - 218 ' 

Nature's Festival -------- 52 

Now-'J'hen --------- 194 

Old Texas Hunter 234 

Painter, A. H. K., 356 

Passing Under the Rod 295 

Peacock, T. B., 354 

Penuel, Mrs. L. G., - 354 

Picture on the Wall 207 

Pollock's Euthanasia 251 

Potter, R. M., - - - - . - - - - 229 

Prayer 255 

Mary Queen of Scot 262 

Problem of Life - - 26 

Purdy, Mrs. Amelia v., 238 

Rain 120 

Rhodes, W. H., Portrait - 346 

Rhodes, E. A., 254 

Rhodes, R. H., 255 

Richardson, Jno. M. 259 

Robinson, Miss Blanche, . . - . - - 264 
Rose, Victor M., - - - - - -267 

Bose Leaf on the Wine - - - - - 89 

Rowe, Horace, - - - ■ Portrait 273 • 

San Antonio River, ... - - 308 

San Jacinto Day - ----- - 288 

Saunders, Mrs. Mary, ------- 286 

Satire on the Times 165 

Scott, L. W., - - 353 

Sentinel's Dream of Home . .... - 181 

Shall We Divide the State 114 

Shiloh - - - . - 302 

Shindler, Mrs. Mary Dana, - - - Portrait - 292'' 

Silent Influences ... - - - - 31 

Soldier's Song * . - 193 

Solitude 77 

Sometimes - 313 

Song of Texas Rangers ....--- 326 

Spragins, Anna Word, 300 



■r«»so 



Spanish Ode to Texas, " - 235 

Star Worshiper 339 

Stealing Roses Through the Gate 38 

Swisher, Bella French, - . - - - - - 308 

Texas— A Vision 287 

Texas to Jefferson Davis 265 

Tennyson's Picture 99 

To a Mocking-Bird - - 319 

To My Husband 145 

Touching Incident 116 

Truitt, Julia P., - - _ 312 

Turner, Thomas Sloss, -.--,•-. 315 

Turrentine, Mary E., 318 

Unae Vitae 122 

Under the Cactus ........ 355 

Veterans' Re- Union ; 155 

Vocation -...-....-- 244 

Waiting -------- 216 

Waiting - 352 

Was It in Vain - 109 

Weaver, VV. T. G., 320 

Webb, E. J., ........ 358 

West, Mrs. Florence Duval, ■ - - Portrait - ■ 328 

Whisky Fiend ----- . - . 260 

Whitten, Mrs. M. E., -' 342 

Williams, Mrs. M. J., • - - - - • 359 

Wine Death of Love - 283 

Young Widow 269 

Young, Fannie Spear, 356 

Young Maud J., 347 

Yokonah 48 



PREFACE. 



^ijfN presenting this volume to the public, I think it proper 
^11 to state that it has been prepared amidst great difficulties. 
I began the work while a university student; and in 1878 
I made arrangements for its publication, but the yellow fever 
of that year made sad havoc ol all my plans, and death brought 
ruin to my publishers. I ordered my manuscript returned to 
me and a large part of it was lost in transit. I have re-written 
it during the spare moments of a very busy life — moments snatch- 
ed from days and nights of labor for existence. 

When I first conceived the idea of writing this book, it was 
my object to collect the scattered gems of the Texas writers, 
and present them in a small volume. But when I began to 
investigate tlie subject of Texas authorship thoroughly, I found 
it impossible to encompass them in so small a space, and the 
book has grown to its present dimensions because I could not 
avoid it. 

There are many difficulties in authorship. Literature has 
become a game of chance. It has to be suited to the taste of 
the educated and the unlearned; the bookseller, and the 
critic, and the judgment of the author is entirely overlooked. I 
have kept these things continually before my mind while pre- 
paring this volume, and I am ready to receive the critics' sneers. 
It has been my aim in the preparation of this book to perpet- 
uate the memory of our dear Texas authors, and I expect every 



10 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



man and woman in the State, who has State pride, to aid me in 
this endeavor by an effort to increase and enlarge its sphere of 
usefulness by extending its circulation. 

The first productions of the American men of letters — those 
of the Pre-Revolutionary period especially — are very rare, and 
collectors are offering fabulous prices for them. So it will be of 
Texas. The productions of those authors who fired the hearts 
of the early Texas rangers are eagerly sought even this early in 
the history of the progress of the State. There is much to ad- 
mire in the poetry of Texas, and the student who fails to study 
the literature of the State, along with her political history, 
loses much of the sweets of history. The lives and productions 
of the Texas authors form one of the most important features 
of her history. They have added their quota toward the es- 
tablishment of her greatness, and deserve the recognition this 
book has given them. 

I wish it remembered that this is a pioneer work. The au- 
thor has had to blaze his pathway through a trackless forest, 
without sign or guide-board. It is left to the reader to say 
whether or not the work has been well done. 



INTRODUCTION, 



BV WM. CAREY CKANE, D. D., LL. D. 



^^'^l|pANGUAGE is fossil poetry." Some legend of a long 
jj|^ past age has embalmed this* thought in words. Orig- 
inal ideas are conceived in i)oetry, although most often 
expressed in rough cast idiomatic expressions. Infantile 
thoughts are usually poetical. The more closely allied men 
and nations are to nature and the open air of heaven, the more 
elevated are their thoughts, and the more inspiring are their 
words. It is vain to suppose that the grandest poetery is the 
creation of art and culture. The most sublime productions of 
human genius are oftenest the creations of minds tutored in 
wilds, beneath crags, near mountain heights, amid hardships, 
strained by penury, and struggling for subsistence and existence. 

Poetry makes its own rules, hence the variety of schools 
which have sprung into being. Rhyme is an unvarying law ; 
melody is an incident. Rhyme may or may not be poetry, and 
is oftener doggerel. 

Poetry is popular, more or less, according to a prevailing 
taste. Ballads and Lyrics suit the general ear, and touch the 
popular heart when discoursed in music. A generation which 
relishes Byron may regard Milton and Wordsworth as odious. 
The coterie which revels in N. P. Willis and Geo. P. Morris, 
sympathizes slightly with Wm. Cullen Bryant and Henry W. 



Longfellow. Cultivated tastes delight in "Festus" and "Yester- 
day, To-day and Forever," while ruder natures are only satisfied 
with Barry Cromwall or Thomas Moore, Whatever approxi- 
mates to poetry, whatever exhibits the afflatus of inspired lan- 
guage, the first essaying of youthful minds, the first efforts of 
rising genius, should be preserved, collected and placed in en- 
during form, to be transmitted to future times, to form part of 
that grand general history of the literature, which, at an appro- 
priate period, will be the certain reflex of its creative minds of 
every grade of opportunity and culture. 

How much true poetry has been lost, how much has never 
been heard of, it may be safe to say is far greater than the poor 
or feeble poetry which may be found printed in various styles 
for transmission to posterity. It may be possible that much 
that passes for poetry may be words fantastically paraded in 
apparent trimeters or in ambitious S.pencerian stanzas. When 
the gold is in sand, much washing and sifting is needed to ob- 
tain the pure grain. Often, too, it may be imbedded in granite 
structures, or possibly surrounded by quartz formation, so often 
there may be little genuine poetry in affluent surroundings of 
climacteric phrases. Yet the small grains of gold in the masses 
of sand or ledges of rock may amply repay the washer for his 
toil, and the glimpses of poetic genius which may flash their 
light out of stately verbiage, may repay all the toil of the 
searcher for rhythm, and all the struggles of the seeker for 
genius. 

The poetic insight is not universal. Few possess it. The 
multitude require to be told what is poetry, and their only reason 
for believing that to be poetry which is claimed to be, is the 
dictatorial statement of the mental autocrats, on whose opinion 



M — ! i Mm '»n i i»i "j i mm mmefimimmma mmjMm.m 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 13 

unthinking people rely. The neighbors of Robert Burns did 
not know that the author of "Holy Willie's Prayer" was a 
poet until the celebrities of Edinburgh brought him to their 
intellectual centre, and gave him an ovation. 

The feeble poet Waller was the popular favorite of England 
in the times of John Milton, and it was left to the study of an 
after generation to prove that the Elizabethian Era of English 
Literature produced but two great creative minds: the author 
of "Paradise Ijost," and the author of "Pilgrim's Progress." 

It is difficult to induce some minds to read poetry. They 
think poetic conceptions all unreal, and, like fiction, without 
historic basis, unworthy of study or reflection. And yet some 
of the most powerful writers in prose have been among the 
most powerful writers in poetry. Milton's prose was the seed 
thought of law, liberty, and religion in his own time, and pre- 
sents tbe base of statutes and enactments of Parliament, Con- 
gresses and Conferences of an after age. 

Macaulay's prose and poetry are both household treasures of 
the English language. William Cullen Bryant as a poet, and 
William Cullen Bryant as a journalist has each ruled an empire 
of mind, and will transmit models to coming generations. It 
is a patriotic duty to foster rising genius ; to nurse youthful 
powers ; to rally the budding aspirations, and aid in their com- 
plete development. State pride is commendable, when catho- 
lic ; when it recognizes foreign merit, while it cherishes domestic 
talent. Let the young orator have the encouraging eye, and 
attentive ear ; let the rising scholar have the voice of approval; 
let the poet, yet in downy covering, half fledged, but struggling 
for flight, have cordial greetings and good wishes expressed for 
higher efforts and future success. Let all the efforts of strug- 



r 



14 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 

gling virtue and upreaching genius be aided with generous 
words and earnest approval, in sympathetic tones. 

Texas is the land of poetry. The Milton, or Tennyson, or 
Bryant, or Longfellow, or Poe, may not yet have appeared, but 
poetry is embedded in the great heart of the people ; it is taught 
in paradisic landscapes, in the mountain heights, in purling 
streams of diamond purity, in dashing rivers springing from 
rocky beds, in the balmy flagrance of ten thousand flowers, in 
the wild revellings of myriad vines, in the sombre density of 
wild tanglewoods, in the forests of live oaks and water oaks, of 
pine and cypress, and in all the luxuriances and abundance of 
semi-tropical and super-oriental clime. 

John Bunyan said of "Pilgrim's Progess:" 

"Some say, 'John, print it,' 

Others say, 'No !' 
Some say, 'It may do good,' 

Others say, 'No!"-' 

So let this book take its chance. Let the wheat be winnowed 
from the chaff. 

Baylor University, July 19th, 1878. 



MARY HUNT AFFLICK 




ARY HUNT has charmed the State by her exquisite 
*-'^'^ ^ sketches of life as contained in her poems, Beside the 

^Sea and Daylight on the Wreck. 
She is a native of Kentucky, and was born in Danville in 
1847. Her father, Dr. J. A. Hunt, is a native of North Caro- 
lina ; a descendant of one of the most distinguished English 
families who immigrated to America during the early days of 
the American Revolution. Her mother was a daughter of Hon. 
John Bridges, of Kentucky, an eminent jurist and advocate. 

Mary received her intellectual training in Harrodsburgh Fe- 
male College. It was while a student that she began to court 
the Muses, and during her early school days, she wrote and 
published her poems. She claims to have inherited her poetic 
talent from her mother, who stood very high in the reading 
world as a lady of fine literary attainments. 

Immediately after she had completed her course of study in 
college she entered the field of letters, and early gained an en- 
viable reputation, both as a poet and as a prose writer. 
■ In 1874 she came to Texas with her parents and settled in 
Burleson county. She soon became known throughout the 
State, and was invited to read a poem to Hood's Brigade, then 
holding its re-union at Bryan. In 1876, and while on a visit to 
relatives and friends in Washington county, she was married to 
Mr. Dunbar Afflick, an author of note, an extensive farmer, and 
a man of varied attainments. 

Mrs. AflWck possesses more than ordinary information, and 
is active in imparting it to those with whom she is brought in 
contact. She is the "particular star" in the neighborhood in 
which she resides. 



X- 



16 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Of Mrs. Afflick, Baker says : "She deserves a place among 
our Texas authors. She is a native of Kentucky, though she 
has gained her chief celebrity since coming among us." 

Mrs. Afflick is not one of those writers who has leaped sud- 
denly into favor, but has grown steadily into the hearts and 
feelings of the reader. Her poetry, while strictly original, sug- 
gests to the reader a curious blending of Miss Moore's simplic- 
ity and Mrs. Purdy's subtlety of tliouglit and diction. She is 
found gifted with an accurate sensitiveness to the joys and sor- 
rows of men and the vicissitudes of the human heart. Though 
the meandering brooklets, the valley-loving streams, and foam- 
ing currents, are of thrilling interest to her, she has a gift to 
work upon the beautiful scenery with power of grandeur and 
sublimity. In short, her style, diction, movement of verse, 
have all sprung up within herself. They iare native to her mind 
as one familiar with forest and winds, with the course of clouds, 
the flow of great rivers, the changing of sunshine and shadows, 
over broad fields and solemn sound. But we shall watch and 
wait with much hope and interest to see what she can do in a 
higher sphere. Meanwhile, I give her the right hand of fellow- 
ship and gentle regard, for she has tilled a part of one depart- 
ment of the field of poetry, with as exquisite a sense, with as 
fine a touch, with as loving and faithful an eye, heart and pen, 
as any one to whom nature has ever whispered familiar words 
in solitary places. 

GATE 8 AJAR. 




HERE life's rosy morning tinges 

Brighten all the year afar. 
Swinging back on burnished hinges, 
Gates of memory stand ajar. 

Fragrant branches, blossom laden, 
Trail about these open gates, 



Poets and Poetry of Texas, 17 



And close hy a red-lipped maiden, 
In the dewy evening waits. 

Softest curls of silken brightness — 
Golden veil for blushing face — 

Sweep her shoulders' dimpled whiteness, 
With their light unfettered grace. 

As she waits there in the gloaming, 
While the daylight fades away. 

For the one who will be coming, 
When the stars glow in the gray. 

* t' t, * -* 

Soft light, o'er chancel drifting, 

On a fair girl's lovely face; 
Summer breezes lightly lifting 

Dainty waves of bridal lace. 

As she kneels where sunlight lingers, 

On half open roses fair — 
Clasped within her snowy fingers, 

Braided through her waiving hair. 

Till the sunbeams drift away in 

Fainter lines through church aisles dim, 
"And the priest has ceased his praying," 

And the choir the bridal hymn. 

Long, long years are sweeping o'er me — 

Weary years of toil and sin ; 
And a gate swings back before me — 

Ah, I weep to enter in ! 

Where a rosy glow once hovered 

On the face so pure and fair, 
On the dimpled arms half covered 

By soft waves of radiant hair. 

Now a misty light is creeping 
Up the aisles so long and dim. 







And the shining hair is sweeping 
O'er a coffin's satin rim. 

Once again a sunbeam lingers 
On half open roses bright, 

But they lie in waxen fingers, 
Folded on a bosom white. 

And a gate with jcAveled hinges, 
Seems to swing adown the air, 

While above its jasper tinges 

Gleams a crown like angels wear ! 



LILIES. 



^1 N sunny June where roses blow 

«| And summer breezes hover, 

f And woodland wavelets softly flow 

Through banks of blushing clover, 
There lilies white, like sheaves of light. 

In dark and shine bend over. 

From out the mossy forest old. 
Where every sunbeam lodges. 

And weaves a line of yellow gold 
Through all the leafy edges. 

O'er dewy ways, sweet fragrance strays. 
Where lilies light the hedges. 

We see them in their spotless snow. 
Beside our pathway springing. 

And backward through the "long ago" 
Their waxen bells are swinging ; 

Where oft we strayed, each breezy glade, 
Some happy chime is ringing. 

Oh swaying bells ! your music tells 
Of golden hours, whose fleetness 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 19 



Left bud and bloom, in fresh perfume, 
To fill the air with sweetness ! 

Oh sunny days! oh bloomful ways! 
Of childhood's rare completeness. 

How oft we come with weary feet, 
With white and weary faces, 

Across the highway's glaring heat, 
Through memory's open places. 

To pluck once more a lily sweet 
From out your scented spaces ! 



DAYLIGHT ON THE WRECK. 



NE morn I stood upon the shore, 
I And watched a floating wreck ; 
No sailor at the riven ropes. 
No man upon the deck. 
For in the night a storm had crept 

Across the ship so fair, 
And had many treasure kept, 
Down in his wild sea lair. 

But on the wreck a lovely girl. 

Had knelt with sinless grace ; 
Just where the morning sunbeams fell. 

Upon her marble face. 
With cross up-borne in dimpled hands. 

She seemed as if in prayer — 
And still and white to human sight 

The storm had left her there. 

And close beside, a bright haired boy 

Lay in the lightning's train. 
Above his head a swinging rope. 

His stiff hands grasped in vain. 
I thought some mother's heart will break 

When tidings reach his home. 




«. 



Or worse than that, will ache and ache, 
Through weary years to come. 

Anrl further on a bearded man, 

Held tight in his embrace, 
A little clinging baby form. 

In all its rounded grace. 
The sunbeams through the timbers black 

Touched locks of gold and grey, 
While far above in circling track • , 

The birds shrieked for their prey. 

I watched the dark mass drifting on, 

Wliere waves had ceased their strife. 
And thought a wreck of every day 

Must likewise pass our life ; 
For in the storm of Toil and Tears, 

That comes alike to all 
Who sail upon the Sea of Years, 

Some bark is sure to fall ! 

Perhaps an eager boyish face. 

Will quiver in the night 
That drops adown youth's sunny space, 

And grow all cold and white. 
And cold and white, the morning light. 

Will find it on life's deck, 
While riven ropes, of golden hopes, 

Swing out across the wreck. 

And nearer still a woman's form, 

May bend with weary grace. 
The chrism of a stainless life, 

Upon her sweet dead face. 
What if she bent in purest prayer. 

While storm raged overhead, 
Think you the rich will ever care, 

Her dying cry was bread ? 

Or man in all his bearded prime, 
May clasp a baby form, 



Away upon the wreck of Time, 

And battle Avith the storm ; 
'Till all his human strength is dead, 

Beneath tem})tations wild, 
And everything that cleaves to him, 

Is that fair sinless child. 

What if before the great white throne — 

The Saint should intercede — 
That child lift u\) its holy eyes 

And for the father plead? 
Christ's tender arms will surely reach 

His sinless one to fold, 
And guide dark wrecks for its dear sake 

Into the gates of gold? 



••°e>J 



22 



Poets and Poetry of Tkxas. 



ALFRED W. ARRINGTON, 



'EW men have made a more lasting impression upon the 
people of Texas than Judge Arrington, A native of 
Iredell county, North Carolina, he spent a large part of 
his life in the Houth. liis father, also a North Carolinian, was 
a Methodist minister of fervent piety and much native elo- 
quence. His mother was a native of the same state, bat of 
Highland Scotch origin. 

The family name was Moore. They were Covenanters; and, 
doubtless left Scotland the victims of religious persecutions. 
Like most Highlanders, the family was originally Catholic, for an 
ancestor was beheaded, for his ancient faith, under one of Crotn- 
well's Military Governors. This mixture of the Saxon and the 
Celt in Judge Arrington's progenitors, will account, physiologi- 
cally for his various and marked mental traits ; as he seemed to 
possess the double genius of both races. His childhood was 
passed in his native state, amid the lovely and picturesque 
scenery of the Blue Ridge mountains. The impression made 
upon him was never effaced. He had always a pa.'slonate 3'earn- 
ing for mountain scenery, and often dwelt upon his delight, 
when a child, to run along down the side of the mountain, and 
listen to the wind amid the pines, and feel his hair lifted u.p 
and blown about by it. This unseen force of nature filled his 
mind with awe, and was his first conception of an invisible 
power. The Bible was his only reading up to his twelfth year ; 
and his imagination was thus kindled and cultivated at this per- 
ennial fount of piety and inspiration. About this period a fam- 
ily came into the neighborhood bringing a small library, which 
was placed at the eager boy's disposal. He committed Lindley 
Murray to memory in about ten days. He had a like aptness 



t 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 23 



for mathematics. The little library was soon read, for his joy- 
was so great over the possession of anew book, he could hardly 
sleep with it unread in the house. The old American novel 
"Alonzo and Melissa" was among the books, and, though a 
miserable affair, tou(!hed a new cord of thought and feeling 
within the boy. The result was he wrote a novel of his own, 
filled with the most tragic scenes. His father in the meantime 
moved to Arkansas, where the ambitious boy spent every spare 
dollar for books. 

At the early age of eighteen he began to preach, and, at that 
time, exhibited an oratorical power that resembled the inspira- 
tion of an Italian improvisatore. He d'rew large audiences and 
excited the greatest enthusiasm. He preached for several years 
and then lost confidence in his childhood's faith, and ultimately 
abandoned revealed religion. He afterwards sought in philos- 
ophy a solution of his intellectual difficulties. 

He moved to Missouri and was admitted to the bar in 18o5. 
He then moved to Texas and was elected judge of the 12th 
District — Rio Grande District — 18-19. He was at one time a 
member of the Arkansas Legislature, but took little interest in 
politics. About this time he published Desperadoes of the South 
and Southwest. It is an exquisite gem of word painting, and in 
it is found his famous Apostrophe to Water. While presiding 
over the bar he wrote a book of Logic, which had long occupied 
his thought, and also a novel The Rangers and Regulations of 
the Tanaha. The novel was published and had a quick sale. 
It gives a graphic account of the ''Ranger system" in those 
days, and is filled with beautiful passages descriptive of the 
scenes and incidents of that stirring period, and is classed with 
Lieutenant Mayne Reid's novels of adventure. 

Mr. Arrington spent the greater part of his life on the fron- 
tier, and had a great passion for travel. He disliked the res- 
traints of artificial society, and lived, so far as an active profes- 
sional career would permit, a solitary life. He was almost 
savage in his sincerity ; knew no double-dealing, but moved on 



L 



to results with the simplicity of a child. He lived, for the 
most part, in an ideal world, and knew very little of the per- 
sons and events which surrounded him. Before his death he 
became a believer in the Christian religion, and while laying 
upon his death bed, he said : ''Like a flash of light every cloud 
disappeared, and the vision of Jesws Christ was vouchsafed 7?ie." 
He died December 31st, 1867. leaving three children. Flora, his 
oldest, married a Mr. Strickland, whose family now resides in 
Georgetown, Texas. 

Though a master of prose composition, still poetry was his 
native element and his favorite mode of expression. It was 
only through his poems that he was able to express the burning 
thoughts that oppressed him for utterance. The poems accom- 
panying this sketch were written after he had passed his fiftieth 
year — when the poetic tide has died out of most men. 

Soon after Judge Arrington's death his poems were collected 
and published in a neat volume with a memoir by Leora A. 
Arrington. The following beautiful tribute to Mr. Arrington 
was written by Mr. Charles C. Bdnney, and accompanies L. A. 
Arrington's memoir from which I have drawn so extensively in 
preparing this sketch: — 

HIS CHARACTER AS A POET. 

Alfred W. Arrington was also a poet; — not a mere writer of 
verse, but a skillful and experienced master of the divine art of 
clothing the splendors of the imagination and the emotions of 
the heart in the celestial language of song. 

As his legal character was adorned and softened by the glow- 
ing passion and beauty of poesy, so his poetry was dignified, 
strengthened, and exalted by the clearness, logic, and good 
sense of his legal learning. Neither confusion of metaphor, nor 
vagueness of expression offend the taste, in his harmonious 
verse. Like a living stream from the top of a heaven-crowned 
mountain, his songs flow on to the sea, with increasing beauty, 
purity, and power. His verse is generally as noble in senti- 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 25 



ment as it is musical in expression, and is frequently shaded by 
the elevated and touching melancholy so common to superior 
minds. The strength of his genius, and the solidity of his at- 
tainments, are well indicated by the fact that he intended to 
undertake so daring a legal and literary task as the composition 
of a work on the Poetry of Law ; and those who are familiar 
with the aphoristic style of his arguments, will readily perceive 
how admirably he could have expressed, in verse, the doctrines 
of that unsurpassed system of jurisprudence, which is the 
crowning glory of American constitutional government. 

His poems, contained in this volume, were written, not as 
the business of life, but as a favorite recreation after severe 
legal toil. That they were written by an eminent lawyer, in 
the midst of the most active and laborious professional labors 
of his whole life, is a remarkable fact ; that they were composed 
by a learned jurist, more than fifty years old, is worthy to be 
recorded among the curiosities of literature. As, on the one 
hand, I have forborne to enter upon any particular considera- 
tion of the legal causes on which rests his reputation as a law- 
yer ; so, on the other, I defer, for the present at least, any 
detailed comment upon the various styles of metrical composi- 
tion which this volume contains. 

It has sometimes been suggested that the practice of law and 
the cultivation of literature are pursuits so inconsistent, that 
the one must be abandoned in order to secure success in the 
other. But the life and works of Judge Arrington are conclusive 
proof that one may be, at the same time, a great lawyer and an 
eminent poet; and it cannot be doubted that his example will 
do much to encourage and extend the practical cultivation of 
literature by the members of the legal profession. 

His poems, to the members of his own household, will ever 
remain an eloquent and enduring testimonial of the depth and 
tenderness of the domestic affection that possessed his heart, 
and will commend his memory to a tenderer regard than aught 
else would have secured ; for there is nothing more highly re- 

3 



26 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



vered among men than the genius that glorifies, and links with 
its fame the beloved name of home. 



LIFE AND DEATH. 



brain that burns with its own heat, 
A heart that breaks at every beat, — 
'A wildering march of weary feet, 
In search of what we may not meet, 
Till found beneath a winding-sheet ; 
In dreamless slumber, long and sweet, 
Which kindly comes to still all strife, 
Is nature's fiction, known as Life. 

To be a thing that cannot die, — 
A part of earth, and air, and sky, — 
In cosmic arms of love to lie ; 
With shaded face, and shrouded eye. 
And marble lips that may. not sigh 
O'er shapes of beauty shining by, 
Yet never yearn for bated breath, 
Is nature's fact, — misnamed Death. 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE. 




AKING early with the twilight 
When the leaves of June are rife, 
i t Let me forth incline to ponder 
On the mysteries of life. 

Sunless secrets'which'have baffled 

All the wisdom of the wise, 
Since the twinkling dawn of ages, 

In the night of nameless skies. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 27 



Lo ! the gleam of golden arrows, 

In the purple East afar, 
While a held of airy roses 

Blooms around the morning star. 

Can ye tell me, winged splendors, 
Brighter than a poet's dream, 

Are ye actual or ideal ? 

Is the great world what it seems ? 

Take away my nerves of feeling, 
And the mountain's fall-like mist, 

If there were no eye to see it. 
Would you, star of love, exist ? 

Vainer still the choral voices 
Of the rich revolving year, 

What were wind, or wave, or thunder. 
To a soul that could not hear ? 

Then, are all hut self-creations ? 

Rock-ribbed earth and rolling main ? 
All the lights that live above us, 

Beauties borrowed from the brain ! 

Darker glooms the dreary problem ! 

Blind solution for the blind ! 
If the mind of all is maker, 

Who is maker of the mind ? 

All the laws have Janus-faces — 

One is nothing, left alone ; 
Sun and shadow, both must mingle, 

Weaving nature's magic zone. 

God doth build galvanic circles. 
Brains and senses are the poles : 

When the two are joined together, 
Comes the lightning-flash of souls. 

Darker glooms the dreary problem ! 
Brain and senses — what are they ? 



28 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



What are time, and space, and matter, 
If ye take the mind away_? 

Will brute atoms blend in order? 

Or shall chance direct the course ? 
Can nerve-fibre find their places, 

Moved by automatic force ? 

Hush ! the great world-spirits whisper 
Sweetly in the new-born breeze, 

While a rain of molten jewels, 
Singing, patters through the trees, 

Hush ! and solve the painful problem, 
Not by study, but with scorn ; 

Not to brook such barren torture, 
Man the heir of time was born. 

What he needs, alone he knoweth, 
Or may know by patient thought ; 

All beyond are sunless secrets. 

Which, if known, would profit naught. 



THE BEAUTIFUL DREAMS, 



H ! the beautiful dreams which the angels of sleep 
'Shed in mercy o'er senses that wake but to weep ; 
How they sparkle like stars, how they whisper like steams 
From the morn-tinted mountains — the beautiful dreams ! 

But a touch of their wing tipped with mystical light, 
Like the wand of a wizard, evokes from the night 
Such a world of enchantment, in azure and gold. 
As bewilders and dazzles the mind to behold. 

And the chime of their voices is sweet in the brain, 
As the silvery singing of mild summer rain, — 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 29 



For they murmer the echo of musical years, 

Ere the' cheeks of the child have been tarnished with tears. 

E'er the beggars that breathe but to murmer and moan, 
On their pinions of purple soars up to a throne, 
Clad in costume so gorgeous, the pride of its hems 
Is friled with the Iris, and flashes with gems. 

And the soul that was darkest, when lit with their sheen, 
Shines again like a star in the cloudless serene ; 
And the loved and the lost, from the desert of death, 
Reappear, with the odors of morn on their breath. 

Oh the beautiful dreams ! may they smile on me still 
When the heart of the sleeper forever is chill ; 
While enveloped in music, and light, and perfume, 
I shall dream of the heavens in spite of the tomb ! 



30 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MRS. E. M. BADGER. 




ISS ELIZABETH MAY WY ATT was born in Pilatka, 
Florida, September 27, 1841. Her father moved to San 
Antonio, Texas, when she was very young, and after the 
close of the war he moved to Gonzales, where our poet remained 
until her death. 

In 1859, I find her graduated from Gonzales College, under the 
presiden(;y of Dr. A. A. Brooks, At this time this institution 
was considered one of unequalled advantages in Texas. 

One year from her graduation, — May, 18G0 — she was married 
to Lafayette Hodges, who was afterwards killed in the battle of 
Vicksburg. In 1869 — October 14 — she was married a second 
time, and her husband, Mr. Brandt Badger, survives her. It 
was about this time that she began to write poems. Having 
been an early convert to religion, it- made an impression on her 
mind not to be erased in after years. Her writings, both prose 
and poetry, bear evidences of a christian character; and, es- 
pecially in all her poems, is traced a warmth of religious fervor 
and piety. They are the simple pearls that go forth from a 
head and heart filled with an exuberant love for suffcn-ing hu- 
manity. Her poems were contributed to the secular press 
around her with no thought of fame. She wrote not for this 
but as she was moved by the approving smile of a friend. 

I remember to have met her only once — 1879 — at Luling, this 
State. Having accepted an invitation to take tea with a friend 
who promised congenial company, I saw for the first time Mrs. 
E. M. Badger. The company was composed largely of minis- 
ters. We sat for some time conversing upon themes connected 
with our visit to Luling — to attend a religious convention — be- 
fore the subject of literature came up; and then it was inciden- 
tal. In this brief meeting I saw in Mrs. Badger the elements of 



*oiw> 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 31 



the poet, and for the first and only time, heard from her own 
lips the story of her literary life. I was attracted by her gentle 
manner and pure enunciation of the eternal fitness of things in 
poetic numbers. 

She had little of that rare article — genius — but her imagina- 
tion was passably good; and her poems possess character, and 
deserve a place in this volume, for independence of thought 
mark all she has written, 

Mrs. Badger died at her home in Gonzales^ August 17, 1881. 

I have before me some personal reminiscences of her, fur- 
nished by parties who knew her from childhood. Dr. J. II. 
Stribling, of Rockdale, writes: * * * * " But I forbear to 
extend these remembrances of one whose piety, intelligence, 
and brilliance of mind, and lovely qualities of heart and life, 
as a lady, as a wife, a mother, as a writer, an ornament to so- 
ciety and as a tower of strength in the church of the living God, 
will live by their influence to bless and lead others heavenward 
in life, and to make melody and praise on the harps of the re- 
deemed in the heavenly world, while the flowers may bloom 
and the ever-green grow over the sleeping dust." Rev. Geo. 
W. Smith, of Weatherford, Texas, says: "I could never tell 
on paper the appreciation of both myself and wife of Mrs. Bad- 
ger's character, either as a friend, wife, mother, writer or 
christian. In all these relations, she was, in my estimation, no 
ordinary woman. A phase of her piety was seen in her care for 
and attention to the sick. With her ' The house of mourning 
was better than the house of feasting.' " 

SILENT INFL UENGE8. 



INSCRIBED TO MRS. ALICE WALL, WALLONIA, KY. 

tHERE are gleams of golden sunlight. 
Softly falling through the air, 
k Cheering beams, that softly linger, — 
Could we see them — everywhere. 



32 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



There are shadows which surround us, 
With a rayless, starless gloom, 

Making life a dread Golgotha, 
p]arth, a breathing, living tomb. 

There are sighs from hearts away. 
Groans that earth may never hear, 

Clouds of incense bearing ever, 
To a loving Father's ear. 

There are hands of holy angels, 
Which encamp us round and round, 

To strengthen us when weary, 
Ijcst we fall upon the ground. 

Lest the chastening rod of sorrow. 
And the furnace heat of pain. 

Should C()n(|uer, and our weakened faith 
JNIight never rise again. 

May our sighs and shadows hastening 
To the (Treat White Throne above. 

Be the bright and holy angels, 
Sent us by our Father's love. 

To teach us meek submission. 
To His kind and blessed will. 

Chasing back the storms that fright us. 
Whispering softly, " peace be still." 



FLOWERS. 



f_|OW bright and beauteous are the flowers, 
^ Those undertones of love, 
'Which God has given to us below, 
From eden bowers above. 
They bloom upon the hillside, 
And in the lovely glen, 



They brighten children's faces, 
And cheer the hearts of men. 

Their fragrance fills the evening air, 

Floats on the evening breeze. 
And like an angel whisper, 

Speaks to the hearts of ease. 
The flowers of spring are beautiful, 

But summer blooms more rare. 
The autumn and the winter flowers. 

May teach us — ne'er despair. 

The springtime of our life would seem 

A landscape, covered o'er' 
With flowers in bright and rich array, 

Exhaustless in their store; 
While summer flowers of life are filled 

With dews distilled from care, 
We find no rose without a thorn, 

How e'er so bright and fair. 

The " sear and yellow leaf" of age 

Bears on its fragile stem. 
The flowers of hope and love and faith, 

A glorious diadem. 
These flowers we find forever. 

Beyond the " shining shore," 
Within the Amaranthine bowers. 

They bloom to pale no more. 




34 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MOLLIE MOORE DAVIS. 




RS. MOLLIE E. MOORE DAVIS, the most thorough 
Texas poet, is a native of Alabama. Her parents im- 
migrated to Texas when she was quite young, and settled 
upon the banks of the San Marcos river in Hays county. Her 
parents were John Moore, of Oxford, Massachusetts, and Marion 
Crutchfield, of Fincastle, Virginia. 

She received her mental training principally from her mother 
who was a woman of great intelligence. The gorgeous scenes 
on the San Marcos, no doubt, contributed, in a great measure, 
to inspire the young poet. As she strolled along its beautiful 
valleys and beheld its crystal brightness, she caught that spirit 
of inspiration which afterwards spread its magic wings and sang 
so beautifully of that river. At the age of nine years she wrote 
her first poem. This so elated her mother that no pains were 
spared in educating her only daughter in whom she clearly dis- 
cerned the budding of poetic genius. When she was fourteen, 
her first published poem appeared in the Tyler Reporter. Mr. 
E. H. Gushing, at that time editor of the Houston Telegraph, 
was the first to recognize her genius. He was so much attracted 
by the genius of the young writer that for some months he had 
her to become a member of his family, where she had the benefit 
of his guidance in her studies. About the commencement of 
the war she began to write extensively, and soon became widely 
known in the South, particularly in Texas, as a writer of great 
promise. At the close of the war she made an extensive tour 
through the Northern and Eastern States in company with Mr. 
Gushing and family. After her return she moved to Galveston 
with her father's family. While residing there the death of 
her mother, in 1867, cast a gloom over her spirit, and, for a 
time, her Muse was silent, the domestic circle claiming her at- 



tention. Such a pen could not long be still; such a genius 
could not long be dormant. Her literary friends deeply regret- 
ted her long silence, and Amelia V. Purdy, a lady of no mean 
reputation, addressed to her the following beautiful lines : 

Thou hast been silent long ! 
Oh, singer, take thy lyre again and sing! 
And thy clear thrush notes shall be welcome as 

The mocking birds in Spring. 

Color and light are here 
But the rill of song that threaded the green ways 
Is no more heard. Oh, singerof sweet lays 

Once more appear ! 

Come, for we wait for thee ! 
Sing for the happy, beautiful, and glad ; 
Sing for the weary, grey, and grim, and sad ! 

Oh singer, sing for me ! 

Dress song in sober guise — 
Dun, brown, and lavender, for Care must be ; 
But set the gems in golden filagree, 

Rare as as the summer skies. 

For not all grey 
Is any life, although a fringe of Care 
Borders the mantle that we all must wear, 

Until we rest for aye. 

Come with thy golden lyre ; 
Rain silver trills upon the summer air, 
Sweet as mosque bells that call the good to prayer. 

Bright as famed hues of Tyre. 

In 1868 her first volume of poems, entitled Minding the Gap, 
appeared, published by E. H. Cushing, Houston, Texas. In 
1870 another edition appeared, with a number of additional 
poems ; and again in 1872, a third edition appeared, considera- 
bly enlarged. Since publishing this book of poems she has 



36 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



written extensively for magazines and periodicals both North 
and South, and in 1878 she began work upon along poem which 
she designs to bring out in elegant style when the proper time 
arrives. 

In 1874 she was married to T. E. Davis, of Virginia, Mr. 
Davis was for quite a time one of the proprietors of the Hous- 
ton Telegram. 

Mrs. Davis is richly endowed with the poetic faculty, and is 
decidedly more thoroughly Texan in subject, in imagery, and 
spirit than any of the Texas poets. Scarcely any other than 
one born in the "Lone Star" State can appreciate all the mer- 
its of her poems, so strongly marked are they by the peculiar- 
ities of Texas scenery and patriotism. Her poems, /San Marcos 
River and Galveston, are productions of rare beauty. They are 
highly descriptive and show a rich and fertile imagination. Her 
little poem, Going Out and Coming In, has been copied more 
extensively, perhaps, than anything she has ever written. Prof. 
James Wood Davidson, in speaking of this poem, makes use of 
the following language : 

"She is essentially Southern and in a high degree Western 
in her style of thought. She has none of that fade sentimen- 
tality that too often marks the verses of young ladies. A some- 
thing of earnestness and directness of utterance in her best 
poems reminds us of these characteristic qualities in Miss 
Mulock's poems." 

This poem is peculiar and somewhat abrupt in its metrical 
flow, but beautifully suggestive. I give it in full : — 

OING out to fame and triumph, 
) Going out to love and light ; 
Coming in to pain and sorrow, 
Coming in to gloom and night. 
Going out with joy and gladness, 

Coming in with woe and sin ; 
Ceaseless streams of restless pilgrims 
Going out and coming in I 



PoKTS AND Pol/rUY OF TkXAP. 37 



Tlu'ou^li tlic portals of the homestead, 

From beneath the blooming vine ; 
To the trumpet tones of glory, 

Where the bays and laurels twine ; 
From the loving home-caresses 

To the chill voice of the worlds 
Going out with gallant canvass 

To the sunnner breeze unfurled. 

Through llie gateway, down the footpath, 

Througli the lilacs by the way ; 
Through the clover by the meadow, 

Where the gentle home-lights stray ; 
To the wide world of ambition, 

Up the toilsome hill of fame, 
Winning oft a mighty triumph. 

Winning oft a noble name. 

Coming back all worn and weary. 

Weary with the world's cold breath ; 
Coming to the dear old homestead, 

Coming in to age and death. 
Weary of its empty (latt(^ry, 

Weary of its ceasless din. 
Weary of its heartless sneering. 

Coming from the bleak, world in. 

Going out with hopes of glory, 

Coming in with sorrows dark ; 
Going out with sails all flying, 

Coming in with niastless barque. 
Restless stream of pilgrims, striving 

Wreaths of fame and love to win. 
From the doorways of the homestead 

Going out and coming in ! 

What a wonderful difference between the poem just quoted 
and Stealing Roses Throvgh the Gate\ 'Tis a strange contrast. 
If is one of the strangest caprices of her genius. But it would 
be difficult to find a more beautiful picture, or one more true to 
nature. The school girls tripping along by the stately mansion 



and half in earnest half in jest pluck the tempting roses that 
grow so near the heavy gate. But what an extraordinary change 
is presented! The whispering, the cooing and the innocent 
and mischievious glances and finally the stealing of the roses 
from the lips. I quote the poem : — 

^jjjrONCT ago, do you remember, 
')M When we sauntered home from school, 
"'f'^Ag the silent gloaming settled, 
With its breezes light and cool ? 
When we passed a stately mansion, 

And we stopped, remember, Kate, 
How we spent a trembling moment 
Stealing roses through the gate ! 

But they hung so very tempting, 

And our eager hands were small. 
And the bars were wide — oh, Kittie, 

We trembled, but we took them all ! 
And we turned with fearful footstep, 

For you know 'twas growing late. 
But the llowers, we hugged them closely. 

Hoses stolen through the gate ! 

Well, the years have hastened onward. 

And those happy days are flown : 
Golden prime of early childhood, 

Laughing moments spent and gone ! 
But ycstre'en I passed your cottage. 

And I saw, oh, careless Kate ! 
Handsome Percy bending downward. 

Stealing roses through the gate ! 

Stealing roses, where the willow- 

O'er the street its long bough dips : 
Stealing roses — yes, I'd swear it, 

Stealing roses from your lips ! 
And I heard a dainty nmrmur. 

Cooing round some blessed fate : 
Don't deny it ! Wasn't Percy 

Stealing roses_^through the gate ? 



Poets and Poetry op Texas. 39 



The following poem — Lee at the Wilderness — touched the 
hearts of the Avhole South when it first appeared. It is a noble 
tribute to a noble man and will grow more popular as time 
glides along. It commemorates the deeds of the Texas Brigade 
under General Hood, at the Battle of the Wilderness, and a 
vivid picture of that "terrible moment." It no doubt inspired 
the artist, McArdle, to put on canvas that grand painting of 
his — "Lee at the Wilderness." I will mention here, however, 
that this work of art was destroyed with the burning of the old 
Capitol a few years iv^o. The poem is not too long to be read. 
I Kivc it entire : — 



f 
i *^^r WAS a terrible moment ! 
^\ J The blood and the rout ! 
^T' llis great bosom shook 
With an awful doubt. 
Confusion in front. 

And a pause in the cries ; 
And a darkness like night 
Passed over our skies : 
There were tears in the eyes 

Of General Lee. 

As the blue-clad linos 

Swept fearfully near. 
There was wavering yonder, 

And a Itreak in tiic cheer 
Of our columns unsteady ; 

But, "We are here ! We are ready 
With rifle and blade," 
Cried the Texas Brigade 

To General Lee. 

He smiled — it meant death, 

That wonderful smile ; 
It leaped like a flame 

Down each close-set file : 
And we stormed to the front 

With a long, loud cry — 



40 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



We liad long ago learned 
Plow to charge, and to die. 
There was faith in the eye 

Of General Lee. 

But a sudden pause came, 

As we dashed on the foe, 
And our seething columns 

Swayed to and fro : 
Cold grew our blood, 

Glowing like wine. 
And a cjuick, sharp whisper 

Shot over our line, 
As our rank ojtened wide ; 
And there by one side 

Rode General Lee. 

How grandly he rode ! 

With his e3'^es on fire, 
As his great bosom shook 

With an awful desire ! 
But, ''Back to the rear ! 

Till vou ride to the rear. 
We will not do battle 

With gun or with blade !" 

Cried the Texas Brigade 

To General Lee. 

And so he rode back ; 

And our terrible yell 
Stormed up to the front ; 

And the fierce, wild swell, 
And the roar and the rattle. 
Swept into the battle 

From General Lee. 

I felt my foot slip 

In the gathering fray — 
I looked, and my brother 

Lay dead in my way. 
I paused but one moment, 

To draw him aside : 



Ah, the gash in his bosom 
Was bloody and wide! 
But he smiled, for he died 

For General Lee, 

Christ! 'twas maddening work ; 

But the work was done, 
And a few came back 

When the hour was won. 
Let it glow in the peerless 
Records of the fearless — 
The charge that was made 
By the Texas Brigade 

For General -Lee. 

The i)oems presented here will sustain her reputation as the 
poet of nature — The Texas Mocking Bird. While she had favor- 
able opportunities for learning, yet her own transcendent gen- 
ius was her best teacher. In all her poems she has developed a 
poetic talent, a cultured intellect, an excellent taste, and a 
thorough mastery of her subjects. These combined excellen- 
cies, so necessary to the poet of nature, are rarely found in one 
of her temperament. Her descriptions are true to nature, with 
a telling moral and burning passion- natural, simple and true 
to poetic feeling. 

Prof. J. W. Weber says of her: "Prominent among the 
wn)men of the South who have made the world better by their 
pen is Mollie E. Moore, of Texas, Earnest, passionate and 
brilliant, she wields a powerful influence over her sex. She has 
successfully fought the fierce battle of adversity, and now tri- 
umphs over all opposition." 

Mrs. Davis is at present a resident of New Orleans, where 
her husband went a few years ago to accept a position upon the 
Times-Democrat of that city. 



42 Poets and Poetey of Texas. 



MINDING THE GAP. 



1863. 



'HERE is a radiant beauty on the hills — 
) The year before us Avalks with added bloom: 
T But, ah! 'tis but the hectic flush that lights 
The pale consumptive to an early tomb — 
The dying glory that plays round the day 
When that which made it bright hath passed away ! 

A mistiness broods in the air — the swell 

Of east winds, slowly Aveaving Autumn's pall, 

With dirge-like sadness, wanders uj) the dell; 
And red leaves from the maple branches fall 

With scarce a sound. What strange mysterious rest! 

Hath Nature bound the Lotus to her breast? 

But hark! a long and mellow cadence wakes 

The echoes from their rocks ! How clear and high 

Among the rounded hills its gladness breaks. 

And floats, like incense, toward the vaulted sky ! 

It is tiie harvest hymn ! A triumph tone, 
It rises like those swelling notes of old 

That welcomed Ceres to her golden throne. 

When through the crowded streets her chariot rolled. 

It is the laborers' chorus; for the reign 

Of plent}^ hath begun — of golden grain. 

How cheeks are flushed with triumph, as the fields 
Bow to our feet with riches ! How the eyes 

Grow full with gladness, as they yield 
Their ready treasures ! How hearts arise 

To join with gladness in the mellow chime — 

" The harvest-time ! The glorious harvest-time !" 

It is the harvest, and the gathered corn 
Is piled in yellow heaps about the field; 



Poets and Poetry of Tkxas. 43 



And homely wagons, from the break of morn 

Until the sun glows like a crimson shield 
In the far west, go staggering homeward bound. 
And with the dry husks strew the trampled ground. 

It is the harvest — and an hour ago 

I sat with half-closed eyes beside the " spring," 
And listened idly to its dreamy flow, 

And heard afar the gay and ceaseless ring 
Of song and labor from the harvesters — 
Heard faint and careless, as a sleeper hears. 

My little brother came with bounding step, 
And bent him low beside the shaded stream, 

And from tlio fountain drank wilh eager lip; 
While I, half roused from my dream, 

Asked wdiere he'd spent this still September day — 

" Chasing the birds, or on the hills at play ?" 

Backward he tossed his golden head, and threw 
A glance disdainful on my idle hands, 

And, with a proud lighfjn his eye of blue. 
Answered, as deep his bare feet in the sands 

He thrust, and waved his baby hand in scorn — 

"Ah, no; down at the cornfield since the morn 
I've been mindin' the gap !" 

" Minding the gap !" My former dream was gone ! 

Another in its place: I saw a scene 
As fair as e'er an autumn sun shone on — 

Down by a meadow, lar^e and smooth and green, 
Two little'barefoot boys, sturdy and strong 
And fair, here in the corn, the whole day long. 
Lay on the curling grass. 

Minding the gap ! 

Minding the gap ! And as the years swept by 
Like moments, I beheld those boys again; 
And patriot hearts within their breasts beat high, 

And on their^brows was set the seal of men; 
And guns w'ere'on their shoulders, and they trod 
Back and forth, with measured step, upon the sod, 
Near where our army slept, 
Minding the gaps ! 



44 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Minding the gaps ! My brothers, while you guard 
The open places, where a foe might creep — 

A mortal foe — oh, mind those other gaps — 

The open plac' s of the heart! My brothers, keep 
Watch over them. 

The open places of the heart- the gaps 

Made by the restless hands of Doubt and Care — 

Could we but keep, like holy sentinels. 

Innocence and Faith forever guarding there, 

Ah, how much of woe and shame would tlee 

Affrighted back from their blest purity ! 

No gloom or sadness from the outer world, 
With feet unholy then would enter in. 

To grasp the golden treasures of the soul, 
And bear them forth to sorrow and to sin ! 

The heart's proud fields — its harvests full and fair ! 

Innocence and Love, could we but keep them there, 
Minding the gaps ! 




FANNIE A, D. DARDEN. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



FANNIE BAKER DARDEN. 



HIS gifted and versatile writer is a daughter of General 
Mosley Baker, a sketch of whom I shall give as introduc- 
tory to what I write of Mrs. Darden. General Baker 
in very early life exhibited the great genius and force of char- 
acter which distinguished him in after life as a young man in 
the legislature of Alabama and as one of the most enthusiastic 
advocates of the Texas Revolution. He was among the first to 
raise a company in defense of Texas Independence and the first 
to successfully resist the approach of Santa Anna; having, with 
only thirty men — at the crossing at San Felipe — compelled his 
whole army to retreat down the Brazos to a crossing in the vi- 
cinity of Richmond. He distinguished himself especially at 
the battle of San Jacinto by his gallantry ; and afterwards in 
the congress of the Texas Republic by his manly eloquence, 
and by his statesmanship. But it was as an advocate that he 
attained his highest distinction; and as the cotemporary with 
Wharton and Jack, it was universally conceded that the three 
stood unrivelled in legal attainments and resistless eloquence. 

Mrs. Darden is a native of Alabama. She was born near 
Montgomery September, 1829. Her first recollection is of that 
beloved spot. At seven years of age her father started with his 
little family to the wilds of Texas to seek fortune and fame. 
This hopeful and enthusiastic little family set sail on the brig 
"Eldorado" for Texas in the spring of 1837, and landed at Gal- 
veston at the end of eleven days' ^travel, during which time 
they encountered two severe storms. I give the following pen 
picture from Mrs. Darden, written to a friend. It expresses in 
fitter terms than I can, her varied emotions on arriving at Gal- 
veston Island : — 

''How beautiful Galveston looked lying low amid the blue 



waves as we approached it in our yawl which could not reach 
the shore on account of the shallowness of the Avater. There 
was only one house on the Island, which was situated on the 
east point of the Island. This was used as headquarters for the 
officers in command. Quite a number of tents, forming almost 
a small village, were occupied by the Mexican prisoners who 
had not yet been returned. The officers were very courteous to 
us all; and I, who had heard so much concerning the fairy land, 
almost imagined that I had reached that enchanted countr,y, as 
I ran to and fro along the beach gathering shells or chasing the 
retiring waves. During the day, we embarked in a sail boat for 
Houston. Although only seven years of age, I remember many 
incidents connected with our journey. The novelty of sailing 
in so little a boat; the dancing waves; the dim grey outline of 
the mainland, as we approached it, not forgetting the fresh, 
sweet milk and hard tack on which we made our supper that 
night, the taste of which was so delicious after our long sea 
voyage as to remain a perpetual and enduring memory. We 
spent the first night at Spellman's Island, and the second at 
Patterson's, further up. We stopped a short while at the bat- 
tle field, where so lately had been done such valorous deeds 
with such glorious results, and my mother led me to the seven 
graves of the Texans killed in that memorable conflict. The 
earth was still fresh above tbem. They 'seemed so peacefully 
l3dng there in the soft mist of the spring morning, with the grass 
gently waving around them, interspersed with innumerable 
flowers, while the gleaming waters swept in hushed silence at 
their feet. It seemed hard to realize that one year before, this 
silence had been broken by the turmoil of battle ; by the shouts 
of victory, and by the groans of agony and despair. And my 
mother ! how these scenes recall her to my mind. So gentle, 
so fair and so young — she too, sleeps her last sleep beneath a 
Texas sky, a Texas soil." 

Mr. Baker remained a few days with his family at Harris- 
burg, and then continued his journey to Houston, on the little 



steamboat " Laura," of historic memory. This boat was ex- 
ceedingly small, and it was with some difficulty that she could 
navigate her way in the narrow and tortuous bayou amid the 
overhanging boughs that swept her guard and sometimes threat- 
ened to carry away her cabin. They reached Houston at nighty 
and were comfortably housed in the only house in Houston — a 
log cabin, which Gen. Houston, with his accustomed gallantry 
and genuine kindness, had resigned to their use. Although at 
that time this Avas the only house in Houston, yet it could not 
be called a small place, for there was quite a population already 
gathered there in tents and shanties, and even beneath the 
spreading boughs of the strong oaks which grew in majesty 
throughout the place. Indeed, Houston has never been, from 
her earliest beginning, anything less than a city. The Com- 
mander-in-Chief of the Army, with his little command, was 
there ; large numbers of Mexican prisoners, waiting to be re- 
turned to their homes, were there. Business sprung up as if by 
magic. Forest fell beneath the ringing axe of our sturdy pio- 
neers. Broad fields waved with the bending wheat and rye and 
greamed with the yellow plumes of ripening corn. The seat of 
government was soon established there, and everything aided to 
make it a city indeed. She had her Capitol, her President, her 
Cabinet, her Congress, her Ministers from foreign countries, 
and everything to form a Capital complete in all its parts. Peo- 
ple who knew nothing of the Republic of Texas, thought our 
society the very synonym of ruffianism, while on the contrary, 
it was, at the Capital, at least, the embodiment of culture, re- 
finement and elegant manners. It is true that there was, for a 
while, a great incongruity in the surroundings; but no over- 
drawn picture has ever been given by those who have a knowl- 
edge of the early history of Texas. There was real majesty in 
Gen. Houston's physique, bearing and manners, and his men- 
tal capacity was in full accord with it all. 

In 1842, Mrs. Darden returned to Alabama to attend school. 
She remained there until the spring of 1846, when she returned 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



to her home in Texas, and the next year was married to Mr. 
Wm. J. Darden, of Norfolk, Virginia. They moved to Colum- 
bus in 1852, where they now reside. Mr. Darden is engaged in 
the practice of law. He was wounded at the battle of Sharps- 
burg, which disabled him for further duty during the war. 

At a very early age, Mrs. Darden commenced a novel, but, 
soon after her marriage, destroyed the manuscript. Since then 
she has written a goodly number of noveletts and a series of 
stories. Romances of the Texas Revolution deserve special men- 
tion. She has gained no little reputation as an artist, and her 
paintings in oil colors are unique and show great artistic genius. 

Ida Raymond, in her book. Living Female Writers of the South, 
places Mrs. Darden among the first of our Texas authors. It 
is utterly impossible to convey an adequate idea of her powers 
by extracts, owing to the many themes on which she has writ- 
ten. Ease and grace characterize her lesser effusions; force and 
vigor distinguish her greater. 

"As a Southern author, Mrs. Darden deserves special men- 
tion. Her productions are of the highest type of art, and com- 
pare, in beauty of conception and design, with the southern 
literati in general." — Dio Rivers in Vieios of Southern Literature. 

I present the following from her pen: Yokonah, Grandmoth- 
er's Baby and Nature's Festival. 



YOKONAH. 




I HEN the night is dark and dreary, 
And the winds are loud and high. 
And the fleeting clouds are drifting 
Swift athwart the leaden sky? 
Then I hear a sad and plaintive 

Moaning sound, 
And my startled ear, attentive. 
Lists to catch the sigh profound, 



For it comes from out the branches 
Of the sycamore that stands 

Near my window waving toward me, 
What appears like ghostly hands. 

For I look and see its outline 

Well defined against the sky, 
Waving high its arms in anguish 

As the stormy gust sweeps by, 
And it seems an Indian warrior. 

One of old. 
Such as those whose ancient glory, 

Still adown the ages roll, 
And I see the mantle lloattng 

'Round the tall, majestic form, 
While his crested plume is waving 

With the wildly sobbing storm. 

But a weariness o'ercomes me. 

And I turn to rest and dreams, 
When against my window — barken ! 

Like a finger-tip it seems. 
And I look, and lo! the Indian 

Once again 
Looms before me, and I see him 

Tapping on my window pane. 
And he waves me to come near him, 

And he sighs a mournful tale. 
And his voice sounds weir'd and dreary, 

Mingled with the tempest's wail. 

I was once a mighty chieftain. 

And Yokonah was my name; 
I will tell thee of my valor. 

For it means the Burning Flame; 
And o'er all these widespread prairies, 

With a band 
Of my noble braves I wandered — 

I was Chieftain of the land. 
But the Indians' day of glory, 

Like the dying sun has set, 
Though it sheds a softened radiance 

O'er the sky of mem'ry yet. 



Dost thou think, thou foolish pale-face, 

Thou art wiser in thy pride 
Than my mighty hand of warriors 

When we trod' these prairies wide ? 
Then my eagle glance, undaunted, 

Scanned the plain, 
And our foemen knew our valor 

In their hosts of warriors slain ; 
Then our wampum helts were heavy 

With their scalps all reeking — wet — 
And their scattered tribes diminished 

Tell our tale of glory yet. 

But alas ! I could no longer 

Wield my weapons as of yore, 
And there stood one night a warrior 

Just before my wigwam door, 
In the dim light, tall and shadowy 

He stood there, 
And he waved me on to follow 

To the Spirit Land most fair : 
I was gathered to my fathers 

In the happy hunting ground, 
But to thee I'll not discover 

This deep mystery profound. 

And my form — they laid it gently 

On our mother Earth's soft breast, 
While they chanted loud — compelling 

Evil spirits from their quest. 
And they placed my bow and arrow 

In my hand, 
For they knew that I would need them 

In the happy hunting land ; 
But the centuries passed o'er me, 

And my dust resolved once more, 
By a fixed decree of Nature, 

Then became this sycamore. 

But 'tis only when the tempest 

O'er the night-winds wildly shriek, 



That my spirit comes, to quicken 

This fair tree, that it may speak. 
Now I swear thee, pale-face woman 

With a vow, 
That ye tell my talc of triumph, 

How with spear and bended bow 
I have put to flight my foemon 

On tlie warpath's deadly trail, 
While within their camps resounded 

Woman's agonizing wail. 

What is this ? 'J'he day is breaking 

And the storm has passeil away, 
And the East, with rosy blushes 

Heralds soft the coming day ; 
And I look to see the Chieftain 

Of the night. 
But l)ehold ! his form is vanished 

In the clear, revealing light. 
And I know that I would deem it 

A delusion of the brain 
If his fingers were not tapping 

Still upon my window pane. 



GRANDMOTHER'S BABY. 



'HERE'S a joy in my heart which I fain would tell, 
There's a love that" all otiior loves excel, 
Which is wrought by the witching, beguiling spell 
Of baby! Grandmother's Baby. 
He's a small, wee thing to enchain mo so, 
But liis power of enchantment is strong, I trow, 
And the sweetest of creatures on earth, I know, 
Is baby, Grandmother's Baby. 

One day there came with a wailing cry. 

Like a snow-white dove, as if sent from on high, 

This darling; and none were so happy as I, 

For 'twas baby, Grandmother's Baby. 



52 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



And it came to my heart and nestled there, 
And my soul rose up with a thankful prayer 
For the gift which had come, so soft and fair 
As baby, Grandmother's Baby. 

And day by day he grew more dear, 
And now, as his prattling voice I hear, 
'Tis like sweetest music upon my ear. 

For 'tis baby, Grandmother's Baby. 
And when he toddles adown the street, 
There is nothing to me that is half so sweet 
As the pattering sound of the little feet 

Of baby, Grandmother's Baby. 

And I love to think, when he looks so wise 
From the thoughtful depths of his earnest eyes, 
Of the future greatness that waiting lies 

For baby, Grandmother's Baby; 
And the hearts he will win will be not a few. 
But I know there will none be as tender and true 
As is mine, with the love which each hour will renew 

For baby, Grandmother's Baby. 

And I pray every day to that Mighty Power 

Who hath given me this tender flower 

To guard from all ill through life's every hour, 

This baby, Grandmother's Baby; 
That the soul he hath lent us all stainless may be 
When it wingeth its flight to eternity. 
And entereth Heaven with Christ as its plea ; 
And I pray that e'en there will be given back to me, 

My baby — Grandmother's Baby. 



NATURE'S FESTIVAL! 




WAS the first of May, and the glad young day 

Was robed in her jewels bright 
For the diamonds rare, on her green robe fair 
Gleamed forth with a radiant light 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 53 



And the soft echoes all, quick reply to the call 
Of the great iron steed which is heard above all 

As it whistles up breaks, 

And away to the lakes, 
On a picnic he flies from his stall. 

On a picnic so gay, on this first of May 

VVhat faces are gathered here, 
There are age and youth ; and I think, forsooth 

That some are surpassing fair 
But of ugliness none, for such good-humored fun 
Halh illumined all faces that even the sun 
Just peeped in for a while, 
With a fraternal smile 
Ere he mounted his fiery throne. 

But what startling sight, the glad morning light 

Displays to our wondering eyes 
For the trees are all, at a festival 
As onward our swift car flies. 
And they whirl and go 'round o'er the soft verdent ground 
In the polka, mazourka and waltz they are found 
In the wild gallopade 
In the grave promenade 
While some with the pigeon wing bound. 

You would laugh with glee, if you could but see 

How the live ouk clasps the ash 
And the sycamore, and the elm before 

Like a whirlwind gayly dash; 
While the hackberries race and the elders keep pace, 
And the little young scions their arms interlace. 

All with jollity gay 

On this bright first of May, 
And enrobed in their holiday dress. 

But some burlesque, in garment grotesque 

Ostensibly 'round parade. 
Some incognito, in moss domino. 

All wild for a masquerade. 
There's the grey hooded fryar, and the men, and the 'squire 



And the peasant and queen, in her royal attire, 

Some with vines all entwined 

In tlie mazy dance wind 
While for fun thoy united conspire. 

In each shady dell, where the wood nymphs dwell 

They are keeping holiday, 
And they laugh, I ween, at the grotesque scene 

Of the trees and shruhs so gay. 
But all nature turns out with a laugh and a shout 
And abandons herself to the joy giving rout 
On this festival day. 
Of the bright joyous May 
So the wood nyni})lis have no need to be llout. 

And the carpet spread for fair Flora's tread 

Is rich with her radiant flowers, 
And within the grove, in each still alcove 

(Uiy vines have en wreathed lier bowers. 
And the azure arcade, clear and bright overhead 
Sheds the light of romance on the beauties now spread 
I>y kind Nature's own hand, 
Which her magical wand 
Hath dispersed amid sunshine and shade. 

But the festive grove, as away we move, 

In the distance far grows gray, 
And the prairies green, with a smile serene, 

Stretch out till dissolved away 
In the horizon dim, while above us sublime. 
Arranged tier above tier that like white statues gleam, 
Are the clouds in array 
As if placed for display 
By Eolus in some freakish whim. 

'Gainst a background blue, there are 'ranged to view 

In colossal groupings quaint 
A genii of old, and an iceberg cold. 

And there is a penitent snint. 
Here a grim IMinntnur, there the archer Centaur, 
'Tis enough to sot wild the most skilled connoisseur, 
And a sphynx and a ghost. 
And a ship tempest tost. 
And a charioteer just on a tour. 



f 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



55 



'Gainst the ether Lluo, there arc linings true 

As done by a master hand, 
And the etchings bold, seem as done in gold 

All incomparably grand; 
And the sun beaming love from his skylight above, 
Like a kind gentle critic these beauties to prove, 
Sheds his softest rays in 
On this magical scene. 
Brightening prairie, sky, streamlet and grove. 

Sweet Nature, to thee what true loyalty 

We owe for thy blessings rare. 
There were none more bright, or more fraught with delight, 

Than your wondrous pictures fai^r. 
On the beautiful day of the glad first of May, 
When all beauty beamed forth in her brightest array. 
When in jollity we, 
Full of mirth and of glee. 
All went forth to that picnic so gay. 



56 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MRS. LOTTIE C. EFNOR. 




RS. EFNOR'S maiden name was Cameron. In 1837 her 
father moved to Texas, landing at Valasco. After drift- 
ing about in the State for several years, he finally set- 
tled in Austin county, where he raised a ftimily of five chil- 
dren, who were subject to all the privations of a pioneer life. 
Of her mother she says : " We inherited all the love for books, 
learning, and general literature that we possess. She was an 
insatiable reader, and remembered all she read with a vivid- 
ness that was astonishing." 

When quite young, Mrs. Efnor was married to a Mr. Walton, 
of Alabama, but was left a widow in about ten months. Soon 
afterward she moved to Nashville, Tennessee, where she re- 
mained a half year. She then proceeded to Liverpool, New 
York, for the purp(?se of attending school; but in a very short 
time she was married to Mr. H. S. Efnor, of Saratoga, who imme- 
diately moved to Texas, and now resides in Hempstead. 

During the days of the Confederacy, Mrs. Efnor toiled for 
the South as though her only success depended upon her indi- 
vidual efforts ; and many a sick soldier has gone rejoicing from 
the Hempstead Hospital, in which she was matron. 

In 1874, Mrs. Efnor was appointed chairman of the Ladies' 
Department of the " Texas Historical Association of Owen- 
ville," but ill health compelled her to abandon the work early, 
since which it has not been resumed. 

Her contributions to the Texas press number many hun- 
dred, and reach back as far as 1850. The poem I present 
here was written as late as 1876, and is one of her best. 



r 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 67 



DREAMING. 



HE meadows are fragrant and blooming, 

The day-god bows low in the west ; 
Sweet nature the air is perfuming, 
The low winds are wooing to rest. 

The gardens with odors are teeming, 
Like zephyrs are fanning my brow ; 

How can I but fall into dreaming 
Of changes all visible now\ 

My thoughts in delightful illusions, 

Are roaming all Fairyland o'er ; 
For never was greater profusion 

Spread out on her marvelous floor. 

The skies are distilling light showers, 
That fall in soft, tissue-like veils ; 

They silver the vine-covered bowers, 
And freshen the sweet-smelling gales. 

I sit here alone in the gloaming. 
While mocking birds joyously sing, 

And call my sad thoughts from their roaming, 
With songs full of beautiful spring. 

I list to their notes in the wild wood, 
Till longings my swelling heart fill ; 

I sigh for the home of my childhood, 
That lives in bright memory still. 

I'm thinking of the hours once cherished, 
Of loving and dearest ones agone ; 

Of hopes that in shadows have perished ; 
Of storm-clouds that ever frown on. 

Dim phantoms are borne thro' my vision, 
In chilling and gloomy array ; 



(i 




LAMAR FONTAINE. 






Poets and Poetry op Texas. 



69 



LAMAR FONTAINE. 




AJOll LAMAR FONTAINE is the author of several 
war Lyrics. The most famous of these is his celebrated 
Lyric — All Quiet Alonfj the Potomac. This poem is one 
of the most widely known Lyrics produced by the war, and 
since so many have laid claims to its authorship, it has become 
one of national fame. There are nearly a dozen contestants for 
this honor. Several of whom have written and i)ublished much 
to substantiate their claims. Among the most prominent of 
them are Lamar Fontaine, Dr. Thaddeus Oliver, and Mrs. Ethel 
Beers. The question has long been discussed ; and has been 
considered "settled" more than once, but even now the world 
has not rendered its verdict. 

Soon after the death of Mrs. Beers, in LS79, Porter & Coats, 
Philadelphia, brought out a volume of her poems, entitled, ^ii 
Quiet Along the Potomac and Other Poems. The appearance of 
this book will have a tendency to strengthen her claims to the 
authorship of the poem. Mr. Bryant, in his book — Poetry and 
Song — credits it to her without comment. But this only con- 
vinces me that he had never investigated the subject of its au- 
thorship, or cared little for the facts of history. James W. 
Davidson, in his book — Living Writers of the South — gave the 
statement of Major Fontaine, part of which I present here. 
I shall also give letters never before published. 

In a letter to Prof. James Wood Davidson Major Fontaine 
says : 

"I wrote the poem in question, on the 2nd day of August, 
1861. I lirst read it to a few of my messmates. My captain's 
name was John D. Alexander, of Campbell county*, Virginia. 
John Moon, P. Graham, Early, W. W. Williams, and one 



GO Poets and Poetky ok Texas. 



or two privates IVom Cos. C and G , wlioso names 1 have forgotten, 
were also present. Durin<:? the month of August, I gave away 
many manuscript coi)ies to sohliers and some few to hidies in 
and about lieesburg, Loudon county, ^'irginia. * * :l< 

"These are the facts. I wish that I could remember names 
more a<:curately, so as to give you a wider sco})e from whence 
you could gain more information regarding the early histi)ry of 
the poem in question. Mr. Graluun, one of the gentlemen re- 
ferred to, was a rehitive of Captain Alexander, Messrs. Moon 
and Early were cousins. Mr. Williams was our Orderly Ser- 
geant. I believe they all reside near Campbell Court House. 
Virginia, and 1 refer you to any of these gentlemen. * * 

"I hope the controversy between myself and others in regard 
to All Quiet Along the Potomac will soon be forever settled. I 
"wrote it, and the world knows it ; and they may howl over it, 
and give it to as many others as they please. I wrote it, and I 
am a Southern man, and am proud of the title." 

Pursuant to Major Fontaine's statement, Mr. Davidson ad- 
dressed a letter to Captain J. D.' Alexander who replied as 
follows : 

" In regard to the authorship of All Quiet Along the Potomac, 
the first I heard of it was in the fall of 18G1, Avhile I was in 
command of the cavalry stationed at Lecsburg. ]\Ir. Fontaine 
was then a member of my company, and I understood he was 
the author of it. All his messmates say he certainly was the 
author of it of which J h'tve no doubt. Messrs. Pugh, Magan, 
^^^)scdale, Moosman, and others with whom I have conversed, 
all agree that he is the author." 

To the above letter I shall add one to me, written in reply to 
one I addressed making inquiry concerning the poem. It is 
from Miss Mary L. Robinson, and bears date McRca, Georgia, 
September 20, 1879, as follows : 

"The poem of which I wrote you last June, and which I 
send inclosed, was found among my father's papers in 18G9, a 
few days after his death from consumption. My father was a 



Poets and Poetry of Ticxas. fil 



man of literiiry tasto, and highly appreciated poetry coming 
from his own section. 

"You will ohservo that it is dated 'In Camp, August 29, 
18G1,' and has this note on the back: ' Written by a Confed- 
erate soldier.' 

" During the months of June, July, August, and September 
my father was in Virginia. I do not know his command. 
Early in October ho came home, but soon went to his command 
in Georgia, where he remained until 1863, when he returned 
home a cripple, and never entered the army again. I do not 
remember ever to have hoard him speak of its author — only 
that it was written by a Southern soldier." 

The poem sent mo by Miss Robinson was written on old- 
fashion scjuare account paper, such as was largely used in the 
South during tiie war. It was almost dim from age and bad 
usage, although an exact copy of the original furnishc^d by 
Major Fontaine. 

The statement from Major Fontaine, without any other, ap- 
pears suUiciently convincing. Captain Alexander corroborates 
what Major Fontaine says. The poem and letter from Miss 
RobiuBon make a very strong case. But I have not stopped 
here. June 12, 1885, I addressed a letter to Major Fontaine, 
and received from him the following reply, bearing date Hilton, 
Mississippi, June 24, 1885 : 

" Yours of the 12th instant received. In reply I send you 
the history of All Quiet Along the Potomac as it is given to the 
Tennessee Historical Society, written upon a postal card. This 
statement is plain — the trutii, the whole truth, and nothing but 
the truth. I am a native-l)orn Texan, and one of the oldest in 
Austin's Colony, My fjither founded the school system of 
Texas, and was M. B. Tjamar's private secretary while he was 
President of the Republic, My heart and hopes are with my 
native State, and to her belongs the poet who wrote All Quiet 
Along the Potoviac, and I hope your book will soon do him 
full justice." 



02 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



I give such of the statement referred to in Major Fontaine's 
letter as space will permit : 

" You will remember that at the battle of Manassas I was a 
private in Co, K — the Bart Rifles — in the 18th Mississippi Reg- 
iment, and in that fight I was severely wounded by a cannon 
shot, and almost unfitted for any kind of duty, and I got a trans- 
fer from the infantry to the cavalry, and joined the Campbell 
Rangers, Co., 2d Va. Cav., under Col. Racliff. As soon as I 
was fit for duty, I left the hospital tent, near Manassas, and re- 
ported for duty. I did not know anyone in the regiment, but 
they were from Campbell coynty, and most of them from near 
the Blue Ridge; one, a Mr. Moore, from just under the Peaks of 
Otter, one of the highest points in the Blue Ridge. A strong 
friendship sprung up between us, as we were of the same tem- 
perament, and exceedingly fond of poetry, and we spent many 
happy hours and pleasant days together, and always contrived 
to be on picket duty in company. The officers of my company 
were Capt. Jno. D. Alexander, Lieutenants Page, Deprist and 
Graham. The Orderly Sergeant, W. W. Williams, was a tal- 
ented man, and a iine critic. Moore and I were about the same 
age, and full of vigor and life, and constantly on the alert for 
adventures of all kinds. We would do many daring deeds, in 
hopes that our names would shine on the pages of history. And 
our ambition was unbounded ; but we were privates, and the 
world takes but little cognizance of them, as the histories of all 
wars have proved. Mr. Moore was a married man, and he 
would often read me portions of his letters from his noble wife; 
she was a patriot of the true stamp, and her letters revealed her 
feelings. Two beautiful little babies had blessed their union, 
and a father's proud love almost made angels of them. And 
his conversation was frequently of his home, his wife and prat- 
tling infants, and he longed for the day when he could again 
clasp them to his heart, and enjoy the sweets of bis own moun- 
tain home. But at the time I write of, the Confederate lines 
were very weak. Every man who could do so, under any kind 



«miKt:^Mn 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 63 



of pretense, had gone home on furlough, to tell about the great 
battle of Manassas, and the consequence was that our picket 
lines were thin, and had to be stretched over a vast extent of 
river front, and we had but few men to]do it with, and we who 
were on the front had to do double duty, and we did not enjoy 
it much, although never a murmur escaped our lipa. 

As I have said, Moore and I were together, whether on picket 
or guard duty. We clung to each other. We bought little hand- 
books of poems, Byron, Burns and others ; and together we 
would sit in the cool shade of trees or hanging rocks that lined 
the Potomac above the falls of Senaca and read aloud to each 
other passages from our favorite authors. And our souls would 
drink in the glories of the scenes around us. 

On the second day of August, 1861, we were on picket duty 
just above the head of the island, near the Senaca falls on the 
Potomac. We had received some late papers from our friends, 
and Moore had received a letter from his wife, inclosing a pho- 
tograph of his two little children. He read me portions of his 
wife's letter, and they breathed the strongest sentiments of love 
for him and patriotism for her country. She fully realized the 
sacrifice she was making, and her letter, to me, seemed to be 
filled with a feeling that she was soon to suffer some great sor- 
row. Alas, how soon was it to be a reality ! 

While reading the papers, I was hailed by a Federal picket 
from across the river, and asked if I had any late papers, and if 
I would exchange with him. I replied in the affirmative, and 
at the request to meet him half way, I stripped, and taking the 
late paper, swam to the head of the island, and we exchanged. 
After some conversation, I agreed to ac^mpanyhim to his post, 
and partake of the hospitalities of his camp. So swiming 
across to the Maryland shore, I put on one of the overcoats of 
the guard, and ate a hearty meal, and made arrangements with 
the entire post that we would not fire at one another while on 
guard. All parties agreed, and after some time elapsed, I pre- 
pared to swim back, and invited my late entertainer to accom- 



pany me, and I would give him some Old Virginia chewing to- 
bacco. He agreed, and side by side we divided the waters, and 
reached our shore. Here we entertained our guest for some 
time, and made him a liberal donation of tobacco, both chew- 
ing and smoking, and he enjoyed liis visit and bade us adieu, 
with many well wishes and hopes for our future prosperity and 
a speedy termination of hostilities. We echoed his sentiments 
and bade him adieu. 

We had to stand on post six hours at a time. That night I 
took my stand at six and Moore retired to rest. The nights 
were chilly, and we usually kept some fire burning. There 
was a small spring of water close by, and a large fallen pine 
tree that I used to sit on and rest at times in walking my beat, 
and I have frequently sto])ped at the spring and bathed my 
face, when the dreary monotony of the still night had a ten- 
dency to lull me to sleep. As soon as I found that midnight 
had arrived, I stepped to the fire and threw on some pine knots, 
and roused Moore to take my place. He rose slowly and 
gathered his gun and stepped to the fire, stretched himself, as 
a sleepy soldier will, and gaped and yawned ; and while his 
arms were extended, and his hand grasped the barrel of his 
gun, there was a flash across the river, and the whiz of a bullet, 
and he sank to the earth, with a hole just above his eye on the 
left side, from which flowed a dark-crimsoned tide. Not a 
word, not a groan escaped him. I removed his remains from 
near the fire where he had fallen. And as I did so, my eyes 
fell on the telegraphic columns of a newspaper, and it was 
headed "All Quiet Along the Potomac To-Night," And oh, 
how truthful it was. It was certainly all "quiet" with me, 
and with him whom I loved as a brother. I could not help 
but shed a tear, and my thoughts reverted to his home, his wife 
and his children, and to the falsehood told by those whose 
guest I had been, and whose treachery had caused his death, 
and they grew bitter, and a demon— vengeance — arose in my 
heart, which was not stilled until the white dove of peace had 



spread her snowy pinions over the whole face of the land, and 
the bomb shells rolled across the sward the plaything of a child. 
When morning dawned, the words on that newspaper were 
burned in my brain — they rang in my ears, and were painted 
on every scene that met my view. I put my friend's effects to- 
gether — his letters, sword, hat, all — and expressed them to his 
wife, with a true and perfect description of his death. And 
while I stood beside his cold form and gazed at his marble face 
and glazed eyes, in the unbroken silence of my lonely watch, I 
felt what few mortals ever feel in this shadowy vale. I penned 
the outlines of the poem then and there, but not as they now 
appear, for the first were biting and sarcastic. I road the crude 
copy to Mr. W. W, Williams, and to Graham and Deprist. 
And Mr. Williams suggested that if I would only make it more 
pathetic, instead of sarcastic, it would take better. I did so, 
and on the 9th of August I had it complete, as the poem now 
stands, and I read it to my messmates, and received their high- 
est commendations, and I gave them copies of the original, 
and they recopicd and sent them home, and soon the whole 
regiment, brigade, division, and army, were in possession of it. 
My fjither, whom I met shortly after the completion of it, sug- 
gested that instead of "stray picket" I ought to say "lone 
picket." But the rhythm did not suit my ear, and I did not 
alter it. The ladies of Leesburg, in Loudon county, Virginia, 
put the words to music; and used to sing them for us, long be- 
fore they were printed. I gave one copy to a IMiss Eva Lee, 
and one to a Miss Hempstone. Also a copy to John M. Orr, 
who at the time was mayor of the town. I gave copies to 
many others, whosenames I cannot recall. The following is a 
copy from the original poem : — 



4iw^ ^j^' quiet along the Potomac," they say, 
/!% " Except here and there a stray picket 
'-'^i Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, 
By a rifleman hid in the thicket." 



66 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



'Tis nothing — a private or two, now and then, 
Will not count in the news of the battle ; 

Not an officer lost — only one of the men — 
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; 

Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, 
Or in the light of their camp fires gleaming. 

A tremulous sigh as a gentle night wind 

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping, 

While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes, 
Keep guard o'er the army while sleeping. 

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, 
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, 

And thinks of the two on the low trundle-bed, 
Far away in the cot on the mountain. 

His musket falls slack — and his face, dark and grim. 

Grows gentle with memories tender, 
As he mutters a prayer for the childen asleep — 

For their mother, may Heaven defend her ! 

The moon seems to shine as brightly as then. 
That night when the love 5^et unspoken 

Leaped up to his lips, and when low murmured vows 
Were pledged, to be ever unbroken ; 

Then drawing his sleeve roughly o'er his eyes, 

He dashes off tears that are welling. 
And gathers his gun close up to its place. 

As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree. 

His footsteps are lagging and weary. 
Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light. 

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 

Hark ! was it the night wind rustled the leaves ? 
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing ? 



It looked like a rifle—*' Ha !— Mary, good-by!" 
And the life-blood is ebbing and splashing. 

All quiet along the Potomac to night, 

No sound save the rush of the river ; 
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — 

That picket's oflT duty forever ! 

Were it not that this little poem had been claimed by so 
many, and by the Northern press generally conceded to a North- 
ern women — I believe living in Massachusetts — I would not 
again enter the arena of the public press to contend for the 
honors awarded me by the whole South in 1861 and 1862. Nor 
would I again awake from their slumbers the dark and bloody 
scenes that have been asleep for the past twenty years. But I 
feel that a duty I owe my native clime and my children, demand 
it. Does it seem possible to a reading public that a woman, 
unacquainted and unused to the scenes and incidents of war 
should be able to portray so good and so true a picture, and she 
a thousand miles from the spot? or how a Northern w^oman 
could write a poem so truly Southern, when the most intense 
and bitter animosity existed between the two sections, and a 
cruel, bloody war raging at the time ? It passes all comprehen- 
sion. And if she could do such a thing, she would be the most 
remarkable woman on the face of the earth. But I will not 
comment longer. The proposition is too absurd. I have not, 
as some of the newspapers accuse me of, endeavored to prove 
my authorship of the poem in question, in a bragadocio style, 
but as one who confidently asserts his rights, with truth and 
justice on his side, and so long as I have them both with me, I 
do not heed or fear all the calumnies that may be hurled at me, 
no matter from whence they come. I do not care for the glory 
and honor that decks the soldier's brow ; that time is past. I 
long for the quiet of my peaceful home, with my little children 
around me, and I love to hear their gleeful voices and ringing 
laughter, as it is borne on the wings of the wind, and I love to 



r 



■■i ,ff -m.m 



68 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



sit in my easy chair, and feel the soft, cool hands of my wife 
twining among the locks of tangled hair that now begins to show 
the frost of half a century. And at times I tell her of the 
struggles fierce and wild in which I used to mingle when we 
fought for the cause we loved, and thought right. 

Prof. Davidson says of this poem : 

" One important point towards the poem's rapid success was 
its timeliness. Its scene is the edge of battle. It is tributive 
to the Unknown Dead, as worthy an altar as was the Unknown 
God of the Atlienians; and this feeling was then becoming well 
defined throughout our country, and is, at all times, essentially 
poetic. The incidents of the poem are romantic in the ex- 
treme, while its essential fact is in a high degree both tragic and 
heroic. Byron's Dying Gladiator (Childe Harold, Canto IV) is 
not superior in touching incidents to our Dying Picket. The 
rude hut by the Danube, the yoimg barbarians all at play, and 
the Dacian mother, have less of pathos in them than have our 
Picket's cot upon the mountain, the two on the low trundle-bed, 
and Mary, for whom a prayer had just gone up from a brave and 
suffering heart — less of pathos, at least to one who has trod the 
path of the picket, shared like dangers and exposures, and 
breathed like pra^^ers for some Mary whom human probability 
left him no hope of seeing again in life. 

" The poem was thus opportune ; and it went to the hearts of 
our people. There are several points of carelessness — crudities 
here and there — in the structure of the verse which detract from 
the poem as a work of art. The S3^stem is anapestic, and, in 
the main, regular. There are instances of the happy effect of 
irregularity, however, that are very striking; as in this verse : — 

' His musket falls slack- -his face dark and grim, — ' 

where the omission of a syllable (after slack) gives place for a 
pause of one syllable's time that is ver}' effective. It is a fine 
touch of the happiest art. In the tenth stanza, the catastrophe 
in 'Ha! — Mary, good-by!' is very fine. Its abruptness and its 




volumc-in-a-word style are startling and suggestive. There is 
no cumber of words ; but the bloody deed is dashed in all its 
gastliness instantly at our feet. We hear the ebbing and splash- 
ing of his life-blood. We feel the warm current spurting upon 
our feet. 

This is genuine tragic power. 

This is genuine tragic effect. 

" The last stanza is the best in the poem; and the last verse 
is the best in the stanza. It is a complete poem in one single 
verse." 

This poem stands among the finest lyrics of the English lan- 
guage. It made the name of its author familiar to the world. 
Its popularity does not grow less as time passes. It was as pop- 
ular ten years ago as it was at the close of the war. It is as 
popular now as ten years ago. It will be aj)preciatcd as long as 
the memory of battle's fierce conflict is retained by man; as 
long, perhaps, as the cradle owns its infant and the lonely 
picket walks upon the face of the earth. To put it forcibly, I 
quote Davidson : — "As long as hostile hosts send sorrow over 
civilized country — as long as bloody death in distant lands 
break loving hearts at home." 

Major Fontaine was born in Washington county, this State. 
In 1840 his father moved to Austin, then the Capital of the 
Texas Republic. He was private secretary of President Lamar, 
for whom the poet is named. Many of the citizens of Austin 
remember him well as a truant schoolboy and young Nimrod. 
His father was for a number of years pastor of the Episcopal 
church in Austin. 

The portrait presented in this volume is made from a photo- 
graph by Oliphant, Austin, Texas, 1868, and is said by those 
who knew Mr. Fontaine well to be a good one. 

Mr. Fontaine is county surveyor of Yazoo county, Missis- 
sippi, and is about fifty years of age. 



70 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MISS WILLIE FRANKLIN. 



Jimm IS.S WILLI E FRANKLIN occupies a pre-eminent posi- 
J)W[\< . tion amonii- that class of Texas writers whose produc- 
tions have been few, but in whom is discerned the poetic 
spirit. She has published only a few poems, but these evince 
a vigorous imagination and a cultured intellect. She is one of 
those petit spirits whose inspiring presence moves one to feel- 
ings of commingled joy and heartiness. Brilliant in conver- 
sation, with a ready wit, sparkling repartee, she occupies a 
most enviable place in the social world around her. Possess- 
ing, as she docs, nature's rarest gift — the ability to please — 
there is before her a sea without its commotion, and a whirl- 
pool without its dangers. 

Miss Willie was born in Tennessee. Pier parents moved to 
Texas just at the close of the war, and settled in Washington 
county, while she was an infant. She was educated at Baylor 
College and Waco Female College, and in her native State. 

Most of her poems have been published under the pen name 
of "Aimer Ney." She has written some very worthy ones. 
Al Lannee, accompanying this sketch, shows that she possesses 
a finished delicacy of art and rare obility to speak in those 
" muffle tones " which made famous The Raven, and The Bells. 

Mrs. F. H. Robertson, of Waco, a lady of rare attainments, 
and herself an author, says of Miss Franklin : " Her poems 
evince decided genius, and her pure and attractive style be- 
speak a highly cultured and chaste imagination. In her verses 
may be found frequent passages of pure poetic thought, not 
unworthy of Longfellow ; and it is the confident hope of her 
friends, in liierary circles, that this gifted young poet may en- 
roll her name among the few real poets of America." This 
is a compliment complimentary, coming, as it does, from one 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



71 



whose pen lias made the world better and the South happier 

by ner novel, Errors ; or The, It'KflitJul Master. 

I bope Miss Franklin's friends may not bo disappointed. 
We shall see. 

Miss Franklin is a resident of Waco, Texas. 



AFTER- A- WHILE. 



"OT lonfj; may we stray down the path's winding ways 
That lead to the land (if the lost Yesterdays, 
For tlie Presents's a spy, and his loud b(!ll be rings. 
When from his domain he detects our vvonderings 
To to the land of the Past. Jealous rivals are they. 
Rival kings whose kingdoms in warfare are gray ! 
Bitter warfare unceasing they'll wage to the last, 
Bitter foes will they be throughout time, for the Past 
Is a robber who fills his vast eofiers through stealth 
From the Present, a miser, who would keep all his wealth ! 
Down the river of time, as some poet has told, 
There's a city that's called, Long Ago. 'Tis the old 
Capital of the Past where he h's stored away 
His vast spoils — mighty empires and ages for aye. 
Midway of time's river, on tlie Present's white strand, 
Its capital lilts — a prey to the robber-king's hand ; 
But safe irom his touch, up the river of time^ 
There smiles in defiance a beautiful clime, 
Free from Present and Past, the one lovely thing 
That time may soil ne'er with the dust of his wing! 
'Tis near — and now far — now it drifts close in sight — 
What is it ? What is it— the world's best Delight ? 
By what name do we know it, that fair land of bliss 
Where we look to find all that we seek here and miss ? 
No world-spoiled words fiy on white enough wings 
To bear thee the beauty'of its beautiful things. 
But in such that we have a voice it sings — 

Just in sight up the swift llowing river of time 

There's a wonderful, phantom-like Isle, 
So fleeting and far, and yet seeming so near, 

That we baptise it AJtcr-a-While. 



72 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



And so steeped in its splendor and mystical glow, 

And in beauty so perfect and bright, 
A spell of enchantment seems over it all. 

That far-away world of delight. 

All the turbulent sweep of the river of time 

It floods with its glamour and glow ; 
Outside of the angles' beautiful gates 

'Tis the loveliest thing I know. 
The blue of its heaven no shadows pass o'er 

On the black wings of sorrow or sin, 
For 'tis watched by Hope's ne'er setting day-star about, 

And 'tis shut by eternal love in ! 

And there's all you may dream on that Avonderful shore — 

Our fairy air castles are there ; 
Faintly flushed the light splendors so airily left. 

And they gleam with a glory so fair ! 
How their towers they glow in that magical sky ! 

And they hint of no shadow or fear. 
For we build our air castles of everything bright. 

And we fill them with everything dear ! 

They're the homes of such tender and beautiful hopes; 

Life's untarnished and best loves are there ; 
Those we hold, they are soiled by the grime of our touch. 

Or climned by some sorrowful tear ! 
But the hallowed bloom of the dear ones afar 

No touch of the world yet defile, 
And in whiteness of beauty they make ever dear 

The fairy air castles of After-a-iohile. 

0, the countless delights of that vanishing land ! 

As the summers they come and they go, 
What yearning hearts and what outstretched hands 

Are turned to its paradise glow 1 
What treasure-filled ships do we see in its ports, 

What glimpses of beauty beguile ! 
What splendor and witchery make glad with delight — 

Ah, the glories of After-a-while ! 

There are glimpses of white-footed dancers afar 
In its outlines, just floating to view, 



"•>^" 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



73 



And, liark ! tliose light revellers, who are they that yiug 

And call o'er the waters to you? 
' Tis — 'tis — th' beauteous Tomorrows ! and they sing of the joy 

They'll bring from that sorrowless Isle — 
0, tlie faithless Tomorrows ! fair sirens are they 

Who live only in After-a-while ! 



In tliat port between heaven and earth — to which world 

It is nearer wo never may know, 
' Tis the one neutral port where the angels of light 

JMay take toll from earth-tratlic below. 
Every world-offering sent, every white- winged desire. 

Floats otf to its shore with a prayer ■ 
Sweet dreams and fond hopes, better faiths, better deeds — 

Life's ideal-real is there. 

Yes ! there's all you may dream, there in hopes summer land, 

Whose beauty gives life its best part ! 
There are youth's sunny fancies and beautiful dreams, 

And the (^Id fairy songs of the heart ! 
There is less of the false tor the sin-burdened world, 

There is more of the earnest and true — 
There are happier things in that '' land o'the leal " 

For the world, and forme and for you ! 

Thus, afar off we see it through Hope's fairy light, 

And we watch, and we wait, and we pray ; 
0, the wistful young eyes that grow dim in the watch, 

And the hearts that grow ashen and gray ! 
For wo never have reached it, that happier land, 

Never sail on its shore have we furled, 
And alas, for its treasures and fairy delights — 

They, the hopes of the hearts of the world ! 

But, 'tis After-a-wJiile when no sunbeam or song 

Flits athwart the dark clouds of To day — 
When life is a flower whose freshness and bloom, 

With the perfume has all passed away ! 
It is After-a-ivhile when the soul groweth faint, 

And the present wears never a smile — 
O, there's not in the wide world a comfort so sweet 

As Hope's wonderful After-Q-while I 



i 



74 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



And the eyes of the world, up the river of time, 

They are turned to that far-off Delight, 
That seems like some angel's lost dream as it drifts 

In its Paradise beauty to sight. 
With healing and life comes the gladdening glow 

Of its day star's magical smile, 
And it rounds with a rainbow the sky of all lives — 

The radiance of After-a-wliile! 



AL-LANNEE* 



t HERE'S a city fair and olden, 
Where a twilight wondrous golden, 
t, Seems to love always to fall, 

Where no sunbeams ever quiver, 
On the turgid moaning river 

Flowing by its castled wall — 
On the turgid river flowing 

Close beside its castled wall — 
Where no bird-song trills and trembles, 
And no quickened throng assembles 

In its ways, so broad and dim — 
Where no airy sculptured 8tee})le, 
Ever sends forth to a people 

Thoughts of prayer or vesper hymn. 
Never sound of song or gladness. 
Never sound of wail or sadness, 

Wakes that city from its sleep. 
That dim city, wide and olden, 
Wrapt in twilight weird, golden, 

And in silence, deathly deep — 
That strange city, fair and olden. 

Where the dim lights love to sleep. 

High it lifts in shadowy seeming, 
And so vast that mightiest dreaming 

Scarce could girt it round and round; 



* An iunugciy, suggested by the quondam supt-rstif ion that lost souls, after death, 
puss into a state of Nothiiiifnesg. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



75 



For tliat wondrous castled Glory, 
Luminous, ghostly, wide and hoary 

In strange gloom and silence hound- 
That vague splendor wrapt in twilight 

And in weird silence found 
Is a soul-realm ! and into it. 
Opening from the walls hefore it, 

Leads an entrance dread to see, 
For o'er that great arch-way, gleaming, 
Is a world of mystic meaning — 

Word of dread doom, Al-lannee! 
While beneath the doom-writ portal, 
Standeth grim a Thing not mortal. 

Pointing with a mocking himd. 
Up the turgid moaning river. 
That with lost souls rise and quiver 

Bearing from the far Life-land — 
Pointing to the grim Death River 

Leading from the strange Life-land ! 
All its moaning waves on reaching 
That dread portal, stop, beseeching, 

Changeii into as many souls ! 
Lo ! each Wave a soul becometh ! 
Its course from the Life-land runneth, 

And the Thing of Fate that holds 
That dread Entrance, witli liend laughter 
Gives each to a lost Hereafter, 

And the Hell of Nothingness ! 
Ah! the doom! but from that ])ortal, 
Whose dread like 's ne'er seen by mortal, 

Falls a light more merciless. 
For o'er that grim arch-way, gleaming, 
Is the Word whose mystic meaning 

Sends a terror, madly deep. 
Through the wild sad souls that see it, 
With no power to turn and flee it. 

As into its light they sweep — 
Is that fire-writ Word that, gleaming 
From that death gloom, sends the meaning 

Of the doomed souls' last To-be ! 
Each dead letter binds and blights them, 
And the word of doom which smites them 
Js their last wail M-lannee — 




And the awful word which smites them, 
Is their last wail, Al-lannee! 

Then the Fate, with hideous laughter, 
(riving each to dread hcreal'ter. 

And the doom of nothingness^. 
Points beyond the gloom where, golden, 
Lies a city dim and olden, 

Wrapt in silence, brokenlcss. 
There the doomed Lost pass ; and ever 
Lifts that castled dim Forever — 

The fair Hell of Nothingness ! 

Lifts as fair as charm-wrought vision, 
Dimly fair as realm elysian, 

While without its ways, endless 
Silence deep, not holy, reigneth, 
There each wave of silence chaineth 

Some soul, lost in Nothingness ! 
Soon as passed the doom-writ portal 
Lifts, the soul of each lost mortal. 

To a Silence hopelessly — 
To a Nothingness ! yet ever 
Feels each that despair of Never 

Through a dread eternity ! 
0, thou Mystic glorious, golden ! 
0, thou Soul-land voiceless, olden, 

Fair cursed Al-lannee 
Thou fair Mystic wondrous, golden, 

Dim doomed Al-lannee! 



-I- 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



77 



GEORGE P. GARRISON 



PROFESSOR GARRISON is a Georgian by birth, and was 
born of wealthy parents at Carrolton, in 1858. He came to 
Texas in 1874 and settled in Rusk county ; and, in that 
county and Panola, he taught school for about five years, when 
he entered the University of Edinburgh. He set sail for Scot- 
land in the Summer of 1879. He remained there two years 
where he graduated with distinction. He acquired (juite a rep- 
utation as a poet ; and among other distinctions, ho obtained 
first prize for English poetic composition. 

After his return to America in 1881, Mr. Garrison taught in 
Coronal Institute, San Marcos; and in that year he was married 
to Miss Annie Perkins, of Rusk, Texas. His health failing him 
at San Marcos, he sought recreation among the mountains of 
Plays county, where he remained until called to take a position 
in the State University as Assistant Instructor of English and 
History, which position he still holds. He ranks very high as 
a literary instructor. 

Mr. Garrison has written a number of poems all of which 
show him to possess a fine poetic faculty. 

From his prize itoom- Solitude— I take the following ex- 
tract : — 

Far away to the South in the yet untraversed Pacific 
Stretches a land by the foot of adventurous man never trodden; 
Low lies its shore, uninviting and boachless, and into its marshes, 
Covered with salt-crusted sea-grass, the Ocean goes plashing 

forever. 
Vessels, with merchandise laden, and bent upon vovages of 

trarhc, 
Pass not in sight of its desolate coast, unbroken bv headlands. 
From its monotonous surface no mountain nor hillock arises, 
Catching the eye of the sailor as climbing aloft to the topmast 



Keenly he glances around him away to the Southern horizon. 
Vast are its confines unmeasured, and deep in the heart of thif 

region, 
Ruling a kingdom congenial, the Spirit of Solitude dwellcth. 



Like the concentrated curse of a legion of spirits in torment, 
Deeper than darkness Egyi)tian, Silence eternally settles — 
Silence oppressive and lonelj'- profound as never sat hrooding 
Over primeval chaos from time's remotest commencement, 
Deeper than tyrannous Death would allow in his moodiest 

moments — 
Silence in which, like music, the roar of the hungriest lion 
Sweetly would hreak on the fearful suspense of the listener 

wretched, 
Gladsome relief would he find in the demon howl of the were- 
wolf. 
Light of the sun is there not, nor the moonljeam's softer 

effulgence, 
Stars never peep through the leaves overhead with twinkle and 

glitter. 
Low on the tree tops a lead-colored vault unrifted is lying, 
Ever beneath it prevails a twilight pale and unearthly 
One unbroken duration and never by night interrupted 
Coming from God knows where, and so weirdly enveloping all 

things. 
Now and again does the forest divide for the l^ight of an arrow, 
Showing the face of a lakelet stagnant,- waveless and darksome; 
Black is its bosom, and on it in ghastl}' and terril:>le contrast 
Water lilies are floating in -whiteness palid and awful, 
Seeming the upturned faces of victims in agony murdered; 
Over them mournfully bending the willow trees stand on the 

margin, 
Sweeping the breast of the inky pool with their foliage drooping. 
On the gray leaves of the willows the dewdrops thickly are 

gathered. 
Thickly the answering drops on the death-hued flowers are 

resting ; 
So do the tears that have fallen on pale, dead features of loved 

ones 
Answer to tears on the cheek of mourners bending above them. 
Such is the mystical and where the Spirit of Solitude governs. 



4- 



Poets And Poetiiv of Texas. 



7d 



Man in the flesh may not enter his kingdom and gaze on its 

terrors. 
Only the wandering spirits of dreamful, wild-visioncd poets 
Visit a hind so unlovely, so fruitless and fearful, and bring us 
Strangely bewitching tales of its grandeur, its gloom, and its 

horrors. 



_.o^8 



go-' 



FLORENCE M, GERALD. 



ISS GERALD is another most gentle and friendly figure 
3ffffl whicli links itself to the group of Texas writers now be- 
" ' ing coni?idered. 8he is a scholar born, a wide and un- 
wearied reader, a student whose librar}' is her workshop, her 
field of action, the center of her life. As a writer of verse she 
evinces a cultured intellect, a wide range of study, and pos- 
sesses many attributes of a born poet. Indeed few have ex- 
hibited a more marked progress. She has a singular individu- 
ality, and writes with a higher aim than merely to please. 
There is an air about her writings that pleases alike the book- 
worm and light reader, which has a tendency to give immortal- 
ity to what she has written. Some of her short poems betray 
her real self, and carry with them the sim])licity of a child-like 
nature. 

The Lays of the Rej)iiblic, one of her longest poems, was first 
read to an Austin audience for the benefit of the yellow fever 
sufferers in 187<S. Tbe following- notice of her appeared in an 
Austin paper the day Ibllowing its reading : — 

"■ Miss Gerahl is a young lady of great poetical ability, and 
deserves great praise for the manner in which she delivered her 
poem. The attitude in which she stood, the dignity whifh 
she assumed, and the distinct utterance of her words is 
where the grc.-at victor}^ of her reading lies. The manner in 
which she read would have done credit to some of our leading 
elocutionists. Lays of the Republic is one of the most beautiful 
pieces we ever heard. She traced Texas from her infancy to her 
present greatness — lier struggle for independence, the great 
battle of the Alamo, and concluded by paying a high and noble 
tribute to Gen. Sam Houston." 



Miss Gerald is a Mississippian by birth, but came to Texas 
as early as 1869. She was educated in Waco University and 
Virginia Female Institute. She was graduated from the latter 
school in 1875, and received from it star medals for excellence 
in Belles-lettres, Moral Philosophy, and French. Her parents 
reside in Waco, where her father is an honored citizen, and was 
for several successive terms county judge of McLennan county. 

When, in 1879, it became known that Miss Gerald was about 
to publish a book of poems, the literary world was somewhat 
surprised, as few of her verses had been published, and she 
was almost unknown to the litorarian. But when it was an- 
nounced, an anxious public looked wit'h longing for its advent 
into the great world of letters. It made its appearance ! 1880 
was the date ! Adenheim, and Other Poems, its title! It was 
received with applause, and its author was at once made a 
l)right and favorite star in the assemblage of excellencies. 
She was petted and made much of by the most elegant circle. 
She won her way at one bound into the society of the rich and 
refined ; while many others Avho wrote quite as well were on 
the outskirts and little noticed. She began life, it seems, with 
a dutiful love and reverence for her parents, and an honest de- 
sire to earn a competency, which she did, notwithstanding the 
fact that she loved society dearly, and was never as happy as 
when among the gay and giddy. 

Two years had glided into the beyond ! Each day cloud 
wore its silvery lining. Surrounded by groups of admiring 
friends her life had known none of the bitterness of anguish. 
All paid homage to her genius. But— another picture. She 
had published the first fruits of her youth. It was an elegant 
volume ! And then stung to the very marrow by unnecessary 
severity of criticism thereupon, she had revenged herself in a 
trenchant and fiery reply. It was full of venom and revenge- 
ful wrath, and developed a passion for personal allusions. She 
was proud — very conscious of her own rank — and eager for the 
deference her book ought to have brought her. 



Rowe's reviews, after all, were nothing so very dreadful. 
Any graceful scribbler could have done as much. The gate 
opened wide for review. Yet there was not such a literary 
genius in all Texas. Rowe's bitterness of temper would cause 
him to lead an indiscriminate assault upon all sorts and condi- 
tions of poets. Miss Gerald came in for the first and most pro- 
longed review, and it created such a furor scrihcndi that no 
other was reached belore the Amaranth — the medium of the 
attack — went down. Rowe, however, was not her only critic. 
Mrs. Fancher, who wrote under the guise of ^' Nettie Nanon," 
entered the arena. And the plaimiess of her statements, the 
brevity of her arguments, and the acuteness of her wit, gained 
at once the respect of the reviewed as well as her throng of 
wakeful friends. But she, too, wrote not for the good of litera- 
ture and literary precision ; but in her own language there was 
a vein of jealousy prompting her, for she says : " Immediately 
that I heard Miss Gerald had Avritten a book, I was seized 
with that malignant jealousy which every reasonable woman is 
expected to feel when another has done a successful thing ; and 
I set to work with the most persistent and determined malice 
to collect to gather the half vanished echoes of poetry and 
romance that were floating through my hazy recollection, in 
order that I might hear again the song of Adenheim.'^ 

In Mr. Rowe's reviews he accused Miss Gerald of getting her 
ideas solely from Adelaide Proctor's Story of a Faithful Soul, 
and incorporating it into her longest and best known poem — 
Adenheim. His review of Adenheim was quite lengthy, and 
done in a manner not at all complimentary to Miss Gerald. In 
reply. Miss Gerald makes use of the following language : 

''Adenheim is founded upon a short legend, which first ap- 
peared in English prose in the beautiful tale, the Pilgrims of the 
Rhine, by Bulwer. He gives it as a translation from the Ger- 
man, and in a note remarks that it is so ancient that neither 
author or origin can be traced; it is classed with other legendary 
lore of Germany, such as the Erl-king, and the Wild Huntsman. 




When I, with the German story in my mind, wrote Adenheim, 
I adhered strictly to the names Ida, Seralim, and Falconberg; I 
did not think it necessary to mention that it was a legend, for 
the reason that I supposed that all educated people were familiar 
with the story. 

I think I scarcely need to justify myself for using as the plot 
of my poem a story that had its origin ages ago. But did I 
need such a justification I need only point to such lofty exam- 
ples as Shakspeare, Scott, and Tennyson, who have all availed 
themselves of material borrowed from antiquity. Nearly all of 
Shakspeare's dramas are founded on old plays, legends and 
stories. AWs Well That Ends Tl^'cZi follows, without the variation 
of a single instance, the plot of a story in Boccacio's Decameron, 
called the Doctor^ s Daughter. Scott, in that stirring poem, the 
Young Lochinvar, haa adhered to the incident of an old border 
song, called Katharine Jantaire. Who has not read with de- 
light the Idyls of the King? What cultivated person does not 
know that each one is founded upon legends of the day of King 
Arthur ? These legends are found in two collections, the Mabi- 
nogion and the Morte d^ Arthur. Elaine, Lancelot, Geraint, 
Enid, and Guinevere, had entered into many an English song 
and story before Tennyson touched them with his jnaster hand. 
As he had woven so beautifully these legends of Arthur into an 
English epic, it is not probable that any poet of this age will 
use them again as material for poetical work, but should the 
soul of a Homer or a Dante animate a poet of the next generation, 
no one would question his right to cull from Lady Geust's Mabi- 
nogion and ^Nlallory's and the Morte cZ' Arthur the legends which 
belong, not to one man, but so the whole literary world. 

In brief, the accusation of plagiarism which Mr. Rowe has 
brought against me, resolves itself into this : Miss Proctor in 
The Faithful Soul and I in Adenheim have used as a foundation 
the bare facts of an old German legend. I had not seen Miss 
Proctor's poem when I wrote Adenheim, but if I had, I would 
not have been deterred from proceeding with my work. The 



84 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Faithful Soul is written in the narrative style, and is comprised 
in fifteen stanzas ; Adenheim is dramatic, and contains one hun- 
dred and eighty-two stanzas. There is as little resemblance as 
is possible to be between two poems founded on the same story, 
and no person but one utterly ignorant of the circumstance 
would ever have brought forward the charge of plagiarism." 

This statement from the author of Adenheim, to a degree, dis- 
armed the critics, who turned their shafts to other points along 
the line. 

It may be mentioned here, in connection with what Miss Ger- 
ald has said, that Giber, the greatest poem Savage Landor ever 
wrote, was founded upon an Eastern tale which he picked up 
accidentally out of a chance volume. It was written in the 
course of some wild wanderings in Wales, whither he strayed 
after his disgrace, when his father's displeasure and his own ex- 
cited and restless spirit made home little attractive to him. 
"Moses Dobson" was wont to excuse Miss Gerald and says, 
" If Miss Gerald sees fit to write and improve upon a dull le- 
gend, whose business is it to prevent her doing so?" This is 
humorous, if not sarcastic. 

In the fall of 1882, Miss Gerald went to New York and began 
study preparatory for the stage, and while there wrote her play 
A Friend, a drama, which M. Marland Clark accepted and put 
upon the boards. In the winter of 1883, she visited Texas and 
began a tour of the State. But the play was coolly received, 
and the failure plunged her and her manager into bankruptcy. 
This failure was a great blow to her and her friends, and, to use 
the language of one of her friends, in a letter to me : " She felt 
the heavy blow severely, and for a time it seemed but the pre- 
lude to a giving away of her mind. But a grateful and forgiving 
people will not hold her to blame. Bad faith and the poor 
management of Mr. Clark alone is the cause, for the play was 
indeed good, and, by judicious management, could have been 
made a success." 



Poets and Poetry op Texas, 



85 



DRIFTING. 



FAR upon the golden sands 

That touch the summer sea, 
'Some crimson sea-weeds joined hands 

And drifted merrily, 

For days and days, in sweet embrace. 

Along the palm-clad isles 
That, in their robes of sheeny green. 

Stretched out for vernal miles. 

It drifted on from shore to shore, 

Now seeking happy rest 
Upon the top of some high wave, 

With glistening, sunny crest; 

And now it played at hide-and-seek 

I'pon the liquid blue, 
When down the white squall furious came 

With maddened speed it flew 

From wave to wave so merrily, 

In wildest, dancing glee ! 
What joy to climb the breaker's heights 

Upon the open sea ! 

Thro' storm and calm it gaily went — 
A child upon its mother's breast ! 

So glad the sea-weed gently rocked 
Within its foamy nest. 

Now sailing up tiie crystal creeks 

That dent the sanded shore ; 
Then floating with the tide again 

To greet the sea once more, — 

O'er dark blue waves, with snow-white manes, 
Ti.at move resistless onj 



Unchanging, tho' all else may change, 
Thro' endless miles they roam. 

It chanced that far upon the wave 
The sea-weed roamed one day, 

Far Iroiii the sand-begirted shore, 
Amid the waves at play; 

Until beside the current warm 

Tliat runs the ocean thro', 
The gulf stream's steady onward tlow, 

The joined sea-weed drew ; 

A moment, and their long embrace 
Was severed ; one Avas caught 

Within the northward-flowing waves ; 
The other wildly thought 

To follow fast ; but, cruel fate ! 

There blew an adverse wind. 
And powerless to change its course. 

It left its mate behind 

And drifted sad and desolate 

O'er many weary miles, 
Until it kissed the sand about 

The sunny pahn-crowned isles. 

There it watched thro' many a year, 

But never came again, 
The mate that it had lost that day 

Within the gulf stream's main. 

The one that in the stream was clasped 

Was ever onward borne, 
Until upon the sea-shore here 

At last 'twas idly thrown. 

I picked it from tlie glittering sand, 
On this far Northern shore. 

And heard it sigh its sorrow out, 
To see its mate once more. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



87 



How like the joined sea-weed are 

Some human lives, alas ! 
Embraced as if they ne'er would part, 

They drift o'er seas of glass ; 

They drift upon the summer sea, 

And cool their parched lips 
Within the dark blue waters, where 

There go the life-built Hhips. 

They drift and dream amid the isles, 

And in the crystal bays ; 
They float upon the summer seas 

For many days and days. 

And then they venture laughingly. 

Till they unknowing come 
Upon the gulf stream of their lives, 

That bears one far from home, 

And casts it on some wild, bleak shore, 

To pine its life away, 
And sigh for all the memories 

Of one far, happy day. 

The other seeks to follow on, 

Alas ! the sea- weed's fate 
Is but an emblem of its own ! 

It sees its loved mate 

By swift relentless currents borne 

Far from its loving clasp; 
It strives to follow, aye, to reach 

Thai one beyond its grasp! 

An adverse wind blows o'er the sea, 

And powerless it goes 
Back to those isles, where orange tree 

And flowery myrtle grows, 

There still to dream, to dream and wait ; 
But never comes again 



The heart it loved ; 'twas lo!>t that day 
Within the yulf stream's main ! 



HE SINGS BECAUSE BE CAN BUT SING. 



\l_ K sings because he can but sing, — 
This is the poet's line ; 
'This beaker holds lor his pure lips 
The sweetest of the wine. 
He sings because he can but sing, 
And beauty linds in everything. 

lie sings because he can but sing; 

No priest of art is he, 
To sing but for the love of gold, 

Or ininiovtality ! 
And if his voice doth make sad moans, 
It echoes but his spirit tones. 

He sings because he can but sing; 

The words will upward swell, 
And if he force them roughly back, 

He sounds their funeral knell ! 
So still he gives them room to spring, 
And sings because he can but sing ! 

The nightingale within the wood. 

Hath sweetest music note ; 
He sings because he cannot keep 

The music in his throat ; — 
' Tis not for glory he doth wake 
The echoes of the hill and lake ! 

He cannot choose but utter, in 
Those music-compelling lays. 

The songs that gather in his heart 
Thro' all the summer days. 

Were he to sing for glistening gold, 

His song, to me, would soon grow cold. 



Whene'er his lieart is sorrowlul, 

His music growoth sad ; 
And yet the song to nie is (h-ar 

As when his t^nes were glad ; 
Beeanse it eonicth from (he heart, — 
Is of his very life a part ! 

Then, when the wings of sorrow touch 
The sweet-tongned singer's soul, 

Must he, uiHiatural, quell the voiee 
With reason's stern control ? 

All ! no ; tho' sorrowful they ring, 

He sings because he can but sing ! 

He sings because he can but sing; 

No reason's power is his, 
To crush to earth his rosy dreams 

Or grey-cowled memories. 
He sings, nor knows the reason why, — 
Giyes smile for smile, and sigh for sigli ! 



THE ROSE-LEAF ON THE WINE. 



SAGE, from Eastern lands remote, 
To classic Athens came. 
Seeking the wisdom he had heard 
Dwelt in the land of fame. 

Deep in the city's busy heart, 

A shaded garden stood, 
^Vhere learned men, — their only love, — 

The ways of wisdom wooed. 

In vain he plead his eager cause 
And souglit admittance there, 

Their answer ever was the same 
To his repeated prayer, 



90 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Until at last they weaned grew; 

So when he came again, 
To seek an answer from their lips, 

They sent no word's refrain, 

But ushered him in silence, in 

A frescoed chamber dim, 
And brought him there a goblet filled 

With red wine to the brim. 

"This is our answer!" so the}' said. 
Straight thro' the sage's mind 

Tliere flashed its meaning, as he gazed 
No room for more we find ; 

"Our circle, like the goblet there, 
With members is filled up ; 

Another drop would prove too much, 
And overflow the cup." 

One moment, with the glass in hand 

He paused, until liis eye 
Fell on a rose that blossomed lone 

Witliin a vase near by. 

He plucked a petal from the flower, 

A rose-lenf pink and fair, 
And o'er the goblet's sparkling brim 

He laid it, blushing there. 

No drop was spilled ; it floated o'er 
The wine's deep mantling tide, 

A dainty, fairy, rosy craft. 
Where Puck himself might ride ! 

A simple thing ! But still it held 

A meaning sweet and rare. 
The wise men bade him enter in, 

And make his dwelling there. 

A lesson from the rose-leaf take, 
Ye hearts that guard so well 



The entrance to the love you hide 
Deep in a prison's cell. 

Because you love a favored fcAv, 
Think not your hearts can hold 

No other guests ; read o'er the tale 
By ancient sages told. 

Think on that goblet, well filled u]), 
With rose-leaf o'er the wine. 

Pause ! Can'st thou in the legend see 
A case that's like to thine ? 



09 



POKTS AND POETHY OF TeXAS. 



WILLIAM M. GILLELAND, 



'HIS rjitluT oxc'ontric ami unt'ortunate jxn't wasr^ Ixtm df 
Irish and American parents. His father was hoiii in Dub- 
* lin, in which city he was educatetl, having j^raihiattd IVom 
the University of Dublin. He immigrated to America in 1825, 
and remained for a short j)erio(l in Philadelphia. He was mar- 
ried there to a Miss Parbour, a lady of distinguislu'd family of 
Pennsylvania. Soon after this marriage he came to 'l\xas and 
settled in Cialveston. Here he remained for a few years, when 
he moved to the southwest part of the State, and settled on the 
San Antonio river. March 2, 1842, his house was surrounded 
by a large band of Comanche Indians, who massacred him and 
his wife, and took their only childT— a. boy of seven years — pris- 
oner. A few days after his capture he was rescued by Col. C. 
L. Owen's connnand, with a broken lance through his body. 
This is the llrst lecord we have of our poet. The early death 
of his parents left him without means, and he was reared with- 
out the advantages of education, except such as he obtained by 
his own exertions. 

He began to write verses when seventeen years old. He 
went to Austin, Texas, when a young man, and remained there 
over a quarter of a century. Most of this time he was employed 
in the State departments, and was for a number of years a clerk 
in the General Land Oihce. He was Enrolling Clerk of the 
Senate for two terms, and was also Librarian of the Supreme 
Court. During this period, I iind that he published many 
poems througliout the South. In 1804 he wrote his greatest 
poem — The Burial March of General Tom Green, — and the high 
esteem in which the South held this noble man, and the tender- 
ness and sublime pathos of the poem, at oiice touched the heart 



Poets and PoKxitY of Texas. 



03 



of the people, and giiined for the author an undying fame. This 
poem is marked throughout by the strength and vivacity of 
original genius. Every lino in it is distinct and prominent, and 
stainps upon the mind the impression of reality ; and when it 
first appeared it struck all by the delicacy of his thoughts and 
the richness and eloquence of his fancy. His stylo throughout 
is rhythmical, showing his natural ear for music. " Harsh 
numbers arc turned to perfect accord ; hatred of oppression has 
made way for broad humanity." Ho has refined and polished 
this poem exquisitely, and each verse possesses wonderful mel- 
ody. 

Mr. Gilleland has produced a groat niany poems which pos- 
sess merit over the ordinary, l)ut such has been his life and such 
his misfortunes that he has never been able to collect thorn to- 
gether. None of the Texas writers, (Jol. A. M. Hobby, perhaps, 
excepted, have written so beautifully of the Southern heroes, 
whose chivalry has completely fascinated him, and proven the 
chief theme of his verse. Most of his heroes arc the brave 
patriots whose lives have been given in the defense of their 
country. His poems in memory of Gen. Ben. McCullough, Col. 
John Luhhock and Hon. Frank Bowden each enlarged his number 
of readers and admirers. 

Mr. (jiilleland's late years have been burdened with painful 
wounds received in 1860, which have gradually enervated him 
and almost reduced him to the position of a crip])lc. 

He is a citizen of San Antonio, and has a large family. 



BURIAL MARCH OF MAJOR 
TOM GREEN. 



GENERAL 



^fffl AUK, the mufiled drum is beating ! and the dirge's solemn 
^l|jj| strain, 

si' Fills the soul with mournful memories for a glorious hero 
slain. 



94 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



And the funeral bells are tolling and the thousands 'round his 
bier ! 

Tell the mightiest Chief of Texas, in his glory sleepeth here ! 

In the Hall of State he resteth, * 'mid the people loved so well, 

And from far they haste to meet him, and to weep their last 
farewell. 

Lo! the pall, befitting heroes, o'er the coffined Chief is laid ! 

And a nation's grateful homage to his silent dust is paid. 

But, Oh ! never more my comrades ! shall we see that flash- 
ing eye 

Kindling with the light of Victory, when ihe hour of fight is 
nigh ; 

Never shall we hear the voice, that clearer than the trumpet's 
breath, 

Bade us triumph for our country, in the iron face of death ! 

And, it was with that ambition, that from moital sources spring, 

He gave on his countr^^'s altar, his own life as offering; 

Mark it in the paths of glory — that his feet so oft have trod. 

From the field of San .Jacinto, to dread Mansfield's bloody sod. 

On the plains of far Val Verde, where the bones of heroes 

mould, 
Shone that sympathy for suffering, that his mighty heart 

controlled 
On ! how oft we've marked in sadness, and the pain his visage 

wore 
Gazing on the cherished faces he should meet on earth no more; 
Or beside the wounded soldier, watching with a parent's care, 
And reviving hope and courage in the bosom of despair ! 
Then we vowed the vow of soldiers, when we saw his banners 

wave. 
There to triumph for our country, or beside him find a grave! 
And our pledge has not been broken, tho' full many a spur 

is cold, 
'Til the last of heroes perish, victory shall our flags f unfold. 
From the Mexico's dark billows, shall his glorious anthem swell. 
To the ears of countless millions that within the future dwell ! 
For it was upon its waters that he met the Federal fleet 



*Tlie remains of Gen. Green arrived in Austin on the 26th of April, 18t)4, and laid in 
state in the Capitol until the 3nd day of May, 1864. 
+ The Confederate flag. 



And its banners bore triumphant, to his grateful country's fleet. 
Onward, from Galveston's victory, hastes the conquering Chief 

again, 
To release sad Louisiana from the tyrant's sword and chain ! 
Conflict after conflict followed with the armies of the foe, 
From the bloody fight of Bissland, to the battle of Barbeaux, 
Berwick, Boeuff, and dread Fort Butler, and Lafouche's day 

sublime 
With Fordoche, shall tell bis glory to the latest night of time. 
And why swell the lists of battles, and the splendor of his name? 
They shall live in song and story— history shall embalm their 

fame. 



But his days on earth are numbered, 'see the cannon's fitful 

flame 
As the wild, grim dice of iron ope's the battle's bloody game. 
There the foeman's countless legions, here the Southron 

squadron pour, 
To oppose their shattered columns to the mighty foe once more. 
Hark ! the fatal word is spoken ! onward thro' the smoky pall. 
Press the cavaliers to battle, as of old to festive hall ! 
Chiefs are flying to their stations, banners float along the plain! 
And the strains of martial music thrill the blood in every vein. 
Studs their bits are madly champing ! and the cannon's 

rumbling sound. 
With the shock of hostile armies, shakes the distant hills 

around ! 
Banks upon the left is raging, like a lion, for his prey; 
While the fiery bands of Walker hold him in the desperate bay! 
Moulton to the rescue hastens ! Majors thunders on the foe ! 
Taylor's foot are fighting fiercely, Bee is waging blow for blow. 
Louder swells the storm of battle, faster falls the iron rain, 
And the gory field is covered with the bodies of the slain. 
Many a faithful steed is gasping on his dying rider's breast; 
Many a boy and fiery veteran, side by side, together rest ! 
Many a knightly plume and banner, that have floated o'er the 

brave, 
With the Federal and the Southron, mingle in one bloody grave! 
Walker, wounded in the battle, still is dashing o'er the plain ; 
Moulton, like a hero, perished in the thickest of the slain ! 
Still the Southron bands are fighting thrice their numbers of 

the foe, 



Shielded by their iron navies on the river's breast below 
Right and' might today opposes, Freedom 'gainst a tyrant's 

claim, — 
In success lies lame and honor, in defeat is written Shame! 
But the glorious prize of victory trembles in the battle's scales ; 
Who will turn its toil to triumph, whom deliverer shall we hail? 
Lo! he comes the prince of heroes ! Hark ! the trumpet's 

thrilling blast, 
Tells the die for death or freedom by his proud brigade is cast! 
Onward at their head he dashes ! Chief and charger, on they go! 
And his veleriui band behind him, like the Ocean's billow flow! 
And a shout of exultation greets him o'er the tierce melee, 
As of old the Scottish slogan told the onset of Dundee ! 
Lion like he's sweeping forward, where the deejiest thunder 

peals, 
'Mid the lightning flash of cannon, and the deadly rush of steel ! 
Hand to hand the conflict rages ! Swords have met in deadly 

clash! 
Steeds are bearing down each other. Onward ! on ! the victors 

dash. 
As the strong majestic forest sways before the tempest's blast. 
Then a shapeless mass of ruin, to the trembling earth is cast. 
So before that i'wry squadron lo ! the tyrant's armies yield. 
Leaving Death and Desolation, spectres of the blood-stained 

field ! 
Slained and wounded lie around him ! havoc everywhere is seen! 
Still, amid Plutonian shadows, tlit the rallying plumes of 

(iHEKN ! 

See ! his gallant band beside him, dashing through the iron rain, 
To avenge their causeand country, and their cherished comrades 

slain. 
Many a wife, alas! shall listen, when that dreadful charge is o'er. 
For the coming of the loved ones, she shall meet on earth no 

more, — 
Many a bride sit, sad and lonely, many a mother mourn her son, 
Thro' the long, sad, dreary hours, when that stubborn fight 

is won ! 
But his love was warm and faithful, and thy name his latest 

tone. 
And thine image on his bosom felt his heart's last throb alone ! 
On they come ! with banners Hying, pressing on the panting foe. 
Who are seeking, from their scourging, refuge in their ships 

below. 



All in vain ! the figlit is over, Victory ! Victory ! is our own. 
Let it roll in sounds of thunder to the blood-stained tyrant's 

throne ! 
Let him know, the God of battles still will aid the brave and 

free, 
And at last will crown their efforts with sweet peace and liberty! 

Lo! the sun has set, and silence gathers o'er the wings of night, 
Calm in death the brave are sleeping, and the victors rest from 

hght. 
But, amid the solemn silence, throbs the soldier's heart with 

grief. 
As they gather in the starlight, round the body of their chief. 
In the thickest of the battle— bearing. still his banners high— 
Green went down— in battle harness— Avith the names not born 

to die. 
See ! he slumbers like a Roman, with his back upon the field, 
Waiting till the morning trumpet l)ids him grasp the sword and 

shield ; 
And a smile is on his visage, for within his dying ear. 
Fell the glorious cry of victory, and his grateful country's cheer. 
Thus, amid the rush of armies, clashing steel and burning shell. 
In the noonday of his manhood. Green, the Star of Victory, fell. 

Lo ! the scene is changed, and thousands with a sad funereal 

tread, 
Bear the hero to his mansion, in the kingdom of the dead. 
Pageantry, and pomp befitting, to the burial march and bicr. 
Mingle in the pale procession, with the heartfelt sigh and tear. 
For he was his people's chosen, and display, nor time can dim 
That pure image of the hero they have ever worn for him. 
Let him sleep with kindred ashes,, where he asked he might re- 
pose,;!; 
When upon his country's altar he at last should close. 
Let him rest, his name is cherished by the noble and the brave, 
And his fame shall l)e eternal as the stars that light his grave. 
And until the angel's trumpet sounds to earth its closing scene. 
Freedom shall not claim a braver, 'purer patriot than oar (tREEN. 



1; The body of Gen. Green, at liir own rP<iuost, previous to the battle of Mansfield, 
was consigned to its last rcstinK place by tlio side of his kindred, in the Austin city 
cemetery, May 3, 1864. 



i' 



a. 



08 I'OKTS AND I'oEtRY OF "f EXAS. 



HELENA GILLESPIE. 




RS. (! ILLV'SPrE is a nntiveof Jonosboro, East Tennessee 
^ and has written beautifully of its rocks and hills; its 
beautiful streams, and towering trees. Her father im- 
migrated te Texas when she was a child, and settled in Dallas 
county, where she was raised. This section at this time, was 
a dreary i)lace for one of her romantic mind, and it was made 
Avorse by her mother's death when our poet was nine years of 
age — old enough to have instilled into her mind the principles 
of virtue and christian forbearance. Her mother was a highly 
accomplished christian lad}', and her inlluence over her daugh- 
ter never was cH'aced. Her father also possessed literary at- 
tainments of a high order, and encouraged her to read books 
and papers. He was particularly fond of ancient history and 
induced her to read the gr(>at histories aloud to him ; and Ikt 
childish enthusiasm entered fully into the i)lan. 

She received a common ^school education, and was held in 
high esteem by all who knew her. In 18(U she was married to 
Thomas Winn, a yoiuig Lieutenant in the Southern army. Ex- 
posure of the eam[) developed early a hereditary tendency to 
C()nsum]>tion, and he died in May, IS();>. Leaving her a widow 
with little of earthly goods, she began school teaching. She 
taught successfully in Greensville and Dallas, and many of her 
pu|>ils at these places remember her with pride. In 1867 she 
was married to Dr. C. C. Gillespie, a man whose position and 
opportunities gave him a chance to encourage her in her liter- 
ary work, and in a short time she liad quite a reputation as a 
writer of i)oems and ski'tches. She died in 1882, leaving her 
husband to sadly grieve, and to remember her noble traits of 
character. 



PoKTS AND Poetry of ITexas. OO 



As a writer of poetry she has accomplislied some good. Her 
poem to Mr. Tennyson received some very kind mentions from 
the press. It was published, as an original communication, in 
the yl//)ffra7U/(., a, monthly pu])li(;ation at that time going forth 
from l")allus. Sin; has never published a hook, hut has written 
ample of prose and poetry to till several volumes, and it is liojjed 
that some kind hand will collect them and put them in more en- 
during shapt!. The i»o(!ms presented — Tennyson^ s Picture and 
A Drcsi^ to Make — give a fair specimen of her productions. The 
closing stanza of Ten nyson\'i Picture is very creditable. It has 
been said that Mr. Tennyson wrote Mrs. Gillespie an autograph 
letter thanking her for it. 

TENNYSON'S PICTURE. 



t '^^IS " In Memoriain" in his face, 
*\I| / How easily the lines we trace. 
^; Now, mark the brow where lofty thought 
Such mighty, wondrous line hath wrought. 
The war with silence and the tond), 
Has written lines of care and gloom. 
The long debate, with friendship's death, 
Has hd't the impress of its breath. 

The brow is knit with anxious care, 
And silver thrc^ads run tbrougli the hair ; 
The eyes are dim witli unshe(l tcsars. 
And l)eanis a glance that tcdls of fears. 
Tin; doubts that tr('nd)l('d in tby heart, 
Will never from thy face dei)art, 
The "child is crying in the dark," 
And see, the tears have left their mark. 

A long, full sentence written there, 
Which tells us of the wrestling prayer. 
Still friendships read in every word. 
My friend, the friend of all the world. 



l*\)i- " \V(,' :iro kin to all ilial is,'' 
Our pallis in dust, in honor his. 
I sct'Mi to ;j;ras|) the thouj^hts at last. 
Which 1 in other liint>s hav»> passed ; 

Not sccin;;- with tiiis vision (hdl 
What thou has writ so \V()n(h>rl'uI. 
And wiicn my faith shall fall aslcoj), 
And 1 in darkness ^r,)p(> and weep ; 
Then K^t those words, whieh thou hast spelt, 
Speak to ni.y Iieart, "That 1 have felt," 
I hail thee, friend, though far beneath, 
1 meekly how me at thy feet. 

I'll praisi' my (iod till time shall end, 

That man was ^iven such a pen, 

To think sueh thouj^hts, to writ.e sneh lines 

Were i)roof that i)a,rt of man's divine. 

Yet, what am 1, that 1 should sinj^-. 

The praises of the |)oi>t-Uing! 

A mote, i\\\ atom 'neath tiu> stnl, 

1 of the dust, \\c like to (!oil. 



A DNh'SS TO MAKE. 



^ DlvKSS to maki" a tli-css to mak(\ 
^ My heart doth fail, my ktu'es do (|uak(> 
'*^i As I this task doth ecuitiMuplale. 
No sho|) I own, nor know no trade, 
And few the dresses 1 have made; 
My wardrobe seant, of rullles bare. 
Yet still 1 nnist provide the wear 

Of nio and mint". 
If tme or two the n\ind)er till 
They must be dressed, and 1 must still 
Hack my poor brain, and study o'er 
A fasiiion hook of wondrous lore. 
The marks and dots and other spots 
0{ .\rabi(- and Hebrew blots. 




Were far move easily disccviKMl 

'riiaii all tlicir sliriiiips and nillli's tiinicd. 

So, tli<m,i!,li I've lost a wvvk IVoin sl(M!p, 

And oltcn hitter tears do \V('c[), 

Still I must try to imitate 

'riiese iiicturcH in the fashion plate. 

Y(^ <!,()(ls ! was ev(U' task so liard, 

Or ever rliyiued a truer hard? 

Three (hiys iin<l iiij^hts ol' laithl'ul work, 
When T, with most (H)mi)laisant smirk, 
Hold oil" my dress, at lull uvm's len<!;th. 
And think how nice is every hreadth. 
The skirt is shirred, the rullles nine;, 
Are fixed and lluted very line. 
A IVin^e lian<.';s liere, and hugles there, 
Sure, I am proud the dress to Aveav. 

When lo ! my nei}i,hhor enters in 

And \ lews my dress with <;luistly grin. 

" True, n(!ver saw 1 sucih a mess, 

Is this {\\o thini^ you rixU :i dress? 

Oh, hoiror ! woman, don't you know 

That they don't wear them this way now ? 

A month af^o this was the style, 

But now it is regarded vile." 



With ea<;er haste I haruled down 

"i'lie book from wliich I'd made the gown, 

Alas, too true, my cruel fate, 

The book was sure a month too late. 

Still I must sweep, and churn and brew, 
And make my dresses nice to view ; 
And nurse the baby, read the news, 
Darn socks, keep buttons on the shoes. 
Play the i)iano, beat the steak, 
Then last, not least, this undertake. 
Not Euclid's probleius intricate, 
Have half so puzzled my poor pate. 
If men to such a task were set, 



102 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



They'd lock their doors, and swear and fret, 
And send for all their counselors. 

And say an age were time too short 
To learn this trade, perfect this art. 
But we must learn a hundred trades 
Without apprenticeship or aids, 
And practice all with equal skill, 
' Tis their good pleasure, our good will. 
I knelt and prayed me, for a time 
When women frail should learn a trade 
And buy their dresses ready made. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 103 



MRS. T. M. GRIFFIN 



HE greatest compliment that can be paid to a work is to 
p saj' that it is truly moral in its teachings. In this con- 
sists the true greatness of literary work. The more a 
work brings morality into light, the more it is a work of litera- 
ture, for the proper office of literature is to make morality vis- 
ible ; and the more it presents a higher moral tone, the higher 
is its place. No task is more delicate or more difficult. 

The question as to the beginning of the era of the moral in 
poetic numbers has long been discussed. It will continue to be, 
fur from time immemorial — as far back, perhaps, as the grove 
possessed an altar and the water supplied a reed for the pas- 
toral pipe — the poets have sung songs to the worship of the 
gods. 

Mrs. Griffin is a native of Wetumpka, Alabama, having been 
born there in the year 1849. She has been a resident of Texas 
for the past sixteen years. In ISGU, she was married to Prof. 
J. R. Griffin, who is at this time — 1885 — Superintendent of the 
Public Schools in the city of Belton. 

Mrs. Griffin began to write poetry when very young, and when 
fifteen years old published her little poem, Haunted. It was 
published anonymously, and was at first attributed to the pen of 
Albert Pike. I remember to have seen it several years ago 
over the name " Myrtle." I was struck by its beauty, and 
made an efl'ort to discover its author ; but not until I received 
the manuscript of it from Mrs. Griffin did I know its author-, 
ship. 

Mrs. Griffin has not written poetry for money or fame, but 
when her Muse demanded it. For the past few years she has 
contributed largely to Sunday School, Song, and Hymn Books, 
and is widely known. 



JL 



104 



Poets and Poktky of Texas, 



The poems from hvv \)vn presented here show a nice poetic 
taste, an earnest sympathy of sorrow or of joy; the greatest 
breathings of love. Her song is as quiet, mellow, and natural 
as the sweet swellings of the gay warblers of the forest. One 
of Mrs. (Iriilin's characteristic })oems is Haunted, referred to 
above. This jxiem is very delicate in sentiment and imagery, 
and the inct that it was composed when its author was only 
fifteen years of nge, gives it an interest apart from others of 
hers perhaps better thought of than this. I give the poem com- 
plete : — 



^I'M haunted by a pair of eyes, 
^ I Softly dark, of wondrous size; 
f With pen or book 
Do what I will, 
With steady look 
They haunt me still. 



It seems so strange that those two eyes- 
Of ev'ry thing beneath the skies- 
Should fill my heart 

With joy's quick glow, 
Then make me start 
With pain and woe. 

Ah, me those eyes, I dread their gaze ; 
They fill my soul with such amaze, 
To know they see 

What I would hide, 
And pity me 
But do not chide. 



They do not chide, those dear, dear eyes ; 
They do not seem to feel surprise ; 
But softer glow 

On me the while, 
As they too know 

Love's own sweet wile. 



\- 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 105 



In dreams they come, beyond my will, 
And steep my soul in wond'rous thrill ; 
I cannot tell 

How it can be, 
This magic spell 
That's over me. 

Nor how those eyes, e'en when away, 
Can melt in mine, their soft'ning ray ; 
They have no right 

To haunt me so, 

Both day and night, 

Wiiere'er I go. 

I would I could forget those eyes. 
That beam like lights in Paradise ; 
With pen or book 
Do what I will, 
With steady look 
They haunt me still. 

The following poem — The Fountain — is as different from 
Haunted as it is possible for two poems to be, yet it is charac- 
teristic of hca- life work. I remember having seen nothing more 
touching — the mingling of childhood memories, of father, founts, 
flowers, birds, and gay youth-time, is so beautifully interwoven. 
I give it complete, as a counter-piece to the gentle melody just 
quoted : 

APt, far in the Southland away from the snows, 
'Hjlf Where orange trees blossom and sweet-myrtle grows, 
^^\ IIow well I remember one fair April morn,-- 
The dew drops were beading the lily and thorn — 
As, out of a fountain whose waters were bright, 
I sprinkled the roses in childish delight, 
A butterfly rose on its gay painted wing 
And flashed thro' the sunlight — a beautiful thing. 

In a moment, o'er tangles of verbenas gay, 
Upsetting some vases which stood in my way, 




Through ferns and thro' mosses of wonderful size, 
I sped down the garden, intent on the prize; 
E'er long it was resting, or waiting for me, 
On the sweet-scented spray of a tall lilac tree ; 
On tiptoe upreaching, I made but a grasp, 
And Hew to m}^ father, the prize in my clasp. 

On op'ning my fingers, I cried out in pain, 

Alas, for my trophy ! my warm grasp had slain 

The beautiful insect, whose life as a spark. 

Had gone out forever, but left a sad mark ; 

With heart full of anguish, I thought 'twould remain. 

On palm and on fingers a life-lasting stain ; 

" My child," said my father, while smoothing my hair, 

" Pursuit we give sometimes to things which look fair. 

Pursuit long and eager, to find if we win, 

Their beauty all vanished, or tarnished with sin." 

He stooped to the fountain and in its pure spray. 

He washed from my fingers the dark stains away ; 

And said, as in laughter, I kissed with delight, 

The palm and the fingers, which once more were white, 

" Little one, there's a Fountain more potent by far. 

Where souls are washed white of all stains that can mar." 

Then, drawing me closely, he tenderly told. 

In low murmured accents that story of old ; 

Till my baby-head fell on his true, loving breast. 

And slowly my weary lids drooped down to rest. 

When heart-sick of phantoms which flit here and there. 
Oft promising pleasure, oft bringing despair; 
When weary of sowing for others to reap ; 
And weary of waiting for calm, blessed sleep, 
How oft have I thought of that far-vanished day 
In the garden at home, by the cool fountain's play ; 
And felt, without question, sometime I shall know 
In the garden of heaven, that bliss that will blow 
From the fountain of life, in the home of the blest, 
Where the heart-sick are Avhole, and the weary at rest. 

The following beautiful lines express the feelings of the au- 
thor when surveying the world before her. They give senti- 
ments of tender regret for the rapid fleet of time. They are 



the simple utterances of a heart filled with feelings of awe for 
the approach of that great day when the soul shall pass away 
from it tenement of clay. In the third stanza the poet ex- 
presses only the hope that all have even when death is near — 

Let the future with her sorrow 

And her sadness stay away ; 
When the darkness comes, t'llhorrow 

From sweet Hope, her brightest ray ; — 

but even yet the poet possibly does not refer to death. I give 
the lines— Z)7-i/^iw^ — in full — they are worthy of preservation : — 

N life's sea my bark is drifting 

With her sails set, fair and wide ; 
And the breeze is gently lifting 
Foamy waves upon the tide ; 
Drifting, drifting, far away, 
Drifting on a golden day, 
Overhead bright clouds are shifting, 
And the wavelets laugh and play. 

When the distant days are veiling, 

And the present hours beguile. 
Why should heart and soul be wailing 

O'er a dream of "after 'while"? 
Drifting, drifting, far away — 

Life is all a golden day — 
Overhead bright clouds are sailing, 

And the wavelets laugh and play. 

Let the future with her sorrow 

And her sadness, stay away ; 
When the darkness comes, I'll borrow 

From sweet Hope, her brightest ray ; 
Drifting, drifting, far and wide, 
* Drifting with the dancing tide. 

Should the gales rise with the morrow, 

Hope, with me the storm will bide. 

The Land ThaVs Far Away is one of INIrs. Griffin's most pop- 
ular songs, and it Avill endure for all time. Was It In Vain is 



108 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



one of her very best. It is suggestive of the trials, disappoint- 
ments, and sorrows of the Messiah while on earth. I give here 
space for both of these poems. They will not lessen Mrs. Grif- 
fin's popularity as a song writer. In all her verses the moral 
is brought forward and displayed in ever}'- line. This is good 
for the poet; better for the world. 

THE LAND THAT'S FAR AWAY. 



<n^TO day is dark and dreary, 
RjA^ In the land that's far away; 
^i No one is worn and weary. 

In the land that's far away; 
No friends are ever parted, 
No tears are ever started. 
No one is broken-hearted. 

In the land that's far away. 

No trouble and no sighing. 

In the land that's far away; 
No weeping o'er the dying. 

In the land that's far away; 
No lonely are forsaken. 
No soul by sin o'ertaken, 
No night from which to waken, 

In the land that's far away. 

No thought or dream of sadness, 

In the land that's far away; 
The heights are crowned with gladness, 

In the land that's far away; 
The Father, without measure. 
Is pouring from His treasure. 
Eternal peace and pleasure, 

In the land that's far away. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



100 



WAS IT IN VAIN? 



f GAVE the earth her roses fair, 
I For me, the thorns were bound ] 
I gave the fields their vintage rare, 
For me, the gall was found ; 
gave calm sleep to weary eyes, 
But watched the night in tears ; 
stilled with peace woe's pleading crieSj 
Amid the world's loud, jeers. 



I gave the bird her downy nest. 

The fox his lowly den ; 
But had not where My head to rest, 

Among the homes of men ; 
I made the bitter waters sweet, 

But drank the cup of woe ; 
I met the cross with willing feet 

That life the world might know. 

I bowed beneath the cruel rod, 

And none would plead for me ; 
In heaven, my home, before thy God 

I'm pleading now for thee. 
Each anxious day and hopeless night, 

And oft unanswered prayer, 
Are precious all, within My sight, 

And have My tender care. 

Think not thy soul can safely lose 

One trial it must bear ; 
The way thine erring mind would choose, 

May bring thee but despair ; 
Thy sorrows and thy tears which fall. 

Are measured out by Me; 
I know them all, I send them all, 

For very love of thee. 



110 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MRS. LIZZIE HAMLETT 



'EW names in the literary history of our great State de- 
serve greater recognition than that of Mrs. Hanilett. She 
was born in Mississip})!, on the 17th day of April, 1842, 
and came to Texas in 1852. She has never been out 
of the State since her arrival here. She is a woman of 
energy, and is full of vivacity, and inherited from her 
parents a healthful, cheerful, sanguine temi)erament, and 
a strong constitution. Her first school days were passed 
in Larissa, where was laid the foundation for her future study 
in the sublime art of elocution. In 1857, she was i)laced under 
the instruction of Miss M. J. E. Dickson, a lady superior as a 
literary instructor. In the family of the refined and cultured 
Miss Dickson, she passed the happiest moments of her young 
life. She afterward entered Andrews College, at Huntsville, 
and was graduated from that institution in 18(>0. She was a 
close student. Hard study imparted to her the sweetest, and, 
almost, the only pleasure during her school term. It was her 
aim to reach to the full capacity of her mind, and to this end 
she still labors. The following beautiful lines aptly express 
her enthusiasms now and then : — 



I would not my short life should be 

An empty, idle dream. 
But rich in great and worthy deeds, — 

Worthy in thought and theme. 

jS; ;i; ;;; ^ ;(; * * 

'Tis this shall claim my highest thought, 

My noblest powers engage; 
This shall insi)ire my earliest years. 

And crown my ripest age. 




MRS. LIZZIE HAMLETT. 



_-,_^ ■»<'• 



J- 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. Ill 



Up to this period she knew no trouble. But the glories were 
not always to remain with the blithesome and gay. In 1861 her 
oldest brother died. Her heart was overwhelmed, and the cord 
of deepest sorrow had been stretched. The mutual affection of 
herself and this brother was rare indeed, and her sweet poem — 
My Brother — shows the deep seated love she held for him. The 
following exquisite lines were penned amid tears and sobs : — 

Oh, Brother ! Earth is not so fair, 

And life is not so dear. 
And Heav'n is not so distant, now, 

For thou hast brought it_uear ! 
I never thought that thou couldst die ! 

I never dreamed that thou 
Must lay thy glorious head to rest 

Where thou art sleeping noio. 
Thou wert so young, so full of life, 

Of manhood's strength and pride ; 
Of health, and hope, and happiness — 

How can I say " /le died!'' 

The memory of this sad event made her heart yearn for a 
change of scenes, and 'twas while weeping her soul away she 
conceived the idea of teaching. So she began to teach, and 
taught for fifteen months without intermission. 

In 1865 she was married to Capt. W. J. Hamlett, This union 
was the consummation of an attachment of years, and which 
has been productive of the purest domestic happiness. They 
lived for several years at Waco. Here they lost a bright idol of 
a boy. This was her second great grief. Her muse again wept, 
and amidst melancholy strains she wrote the poem Invocation, 
in which appears the following lines : — 

I loved a babe, a matchless boy, one whom 
The angels loved as well, and lured him home, 

Alas, alas for me ! 
He would press kisses on my lips as sweet, 
As pure as love and innocence. ' Twere meet 

That such should seraph be. 



112 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



None but a mother, whose tenderest chords of love and 
pity had been touched, could have penned these lines. They 
impress one with the greatest feeling of sympathy, and 
recall to our mind that beautiful and truthful passage from 
Washington Irving : "The love of a mother is never exhausted, 
it never changes, it never tires." Speaking of her at this time, 
a writer who knows her well says : "Soon after this sad occur- 
rence, she moved to her present residence near Palestine, where 
she and her devoted liusband live in modest seclusion, sur- 
rounded by growing crops, fat cattle, lilooming violets, and 
waving grass. Here they receive daily, letters, papers, maga- 
zines, and books through which they keep enrajrport with the 
great world outside. Her home is one of those delightful coun- 
try homes one loves to see; and to enjoy a winter evening around 
her hearth-side, is a boon to be coveted by princes and crown- 
heads." 

Mrs, Hamlett's first poem was written when only fourteen 
years of age. It was the Death of Rush, when his memory 
stirred the hearts of all Texans. 

In 1876 her poems were published in a neat (8 mo, 345 pages) 
volume, handsomely bound. The book at one bound, placed its 
author a bright star among the constellation of Southern writers. 
She is a blonde of medium size, with pearly white teeth and 
auburn hair; modest and rehiring in her nature, possessing traits 
of woman-hood rarely seen in one of her attainments. It has 
been said that literary women are j^oorly prepared by nature 
for good wives ; but if true, there is an exception in this in- 
stance. She can prepare a cup of coflee afid preside over the 
supper table with as much grace as she can render a difficult 
passage from Poe. 

The Fleai:ir(.res of Home, Mrs. Hamlett's longest and best i)oem, 
has been very kindly reviewed by the press. It reminds one 
of Campbell's PI nsures of Hope and Roger's Pleasures of Mem- 
ory. To say that the Pleasures of Home is scarcel}'' excelled b}'' 
either is not i)utting it too gtrong. It will be remembered that 



Wordsworth was critically severe on Campbel's poem and said 
that "it was strongly overrated.'" There seems to be a brother- 
hood of song — one as described by Keats : — 

" Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belorig, 
And doubl}^ sweet a brotherhood of song." 

And no doubt Mrs. Hamlett had read these great masters be- 
fore expressing her delicate sentiment in the Pleasures of Home. 

Major F. L. Yoakum, in a letter to the author, and speaking 
of Mrs. Hamlett, used the following language : " Iler volume 
of poems is a rich treasure in every household, and deserves a 
place on every center table. Her pure teachings and hallowed 
sentiments make far richer the heart that imbibes them. The 
measure and glowing imagery read in beautiful cadences fall 
sweetly on the ear and heart alike. The music of her sacred 
teachings reach the soul and carry the heavenly thoughts of 
the poet to young spirits and entwines them there." 

Mrs. Hamlett has also written some beautiful prose sketches; 
and has a novel now completed, which will likely appear dur- 
ing this year, 1885. 

A Touching Incident, accompanying other poems of Mrs. 
Hamlett, is beautifully tender, and shows the warmest feeling 
of sympathy. I give the notes, that it may be fully understood^ 
and ask for it a careful reading. The selections here presented 
represent Mrs. Hamlett's varied style and sentiments of the 
emotion, and may be classed among her best poems, although 
she has written so much and so well, that it makes the task of 
selection a difhcult one. Iler poem Shall We Divide the State? 
is perhaps her most popular one. It is a gem, and richly de- 
serves what notoriety it has gained. The question of division 
may yet rise like a spectre. Then will this poem receive again 
those plaudits once before so bountifully bestowed upon it. As 



114 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



time rolls on in its ceaseless train, this poem will grow in pop- 
ular favor. Then there will be 

" No North, no South, no East, no West." 
Mrs. Hamlett has recently moved to Ennis, Texas, where 
she is engaged in teaching. 



SHALL WE DIVIDE THE STATE f 



IVIDE the State ! Who dare suggest 
Such act of sacrilege? 
'^'^Who from us thus would basely wrest 

Our holiest heritage ? 
Bought with a price, it is our own ! 

And shall we rend it twain 
What was cemented into one 
By blood of heroes slain ? 

Divide the State! How then appease 

The blest names of those 
Who watch with ceaseless jealousies 

Their ashes long repose? 
Say for which portion Crocket fought ? 

For which did Travis die? 
For which hath Houston's pleading bought 

A Nation's sympathy ? 

Say which shall claim Jacinto's plains ? 

Which own the Alamo ? 
To which belong the gory stains 

That wrapped our flag in woe ? 
The Rio Grande is our own ! 

Exultant, broad and free, 
It sweeps in grandeur and alone 

Right onward to the sea. 

The San Antonio waters wide 
Its green and fertile hills ; 



Poets and Pop:try of Texas. 115 



San Gabrielle its silvery tide 

From crystal streamlets fills ; 
The beautiful San Marcos glides 

' Neath azure skies serene ; 
And sweet Cibolo laughing hides 

Its willow banks between. 

The giant Colorado sleeps 

Begirt with flowery meals : 
Salado smiles, Aquilla weeps, 

Lampasas proudly pleads, 
The Guadalupe bends its haughty course 

Beside the loved Leon; 
And Brazos blends his breathings hoarse 

With Ocean's constant moan. 

The Trinity her valley crowns 

With fields of waving green, 
And Angelina darkly frowns 

Beside the lone Sabine. 
Say, shall their names be sundered ? 

Their names to Texas dear ! 
They were bequeathed us by the dead ! 

Shall we that gift forswear ? 

Divide the State for which they bled ! 

A goddess grand and good. 
And rear upon its base instead 

A puny sisterhood ? 
No ! 'Tis her broad square miles that make 

Her destiny so great ; 
And glory will her soil forsake 

Should we divide the State. 

No North, no South, no East, no West, 

Let this our motto be : 
Our State is one. So let it rest ; 

United, great and free. 
Let one grand center call her sons 

To legislative halls ; 
Let one grand voice, in thunder tones, 

Guard well her ''outer walls." 



11 6 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



A TOUCHING INCIDENT. 



A short time since, in this city, a brilliant and much admired 
lady, who had been suffering some time with a trouble of the 
eye, was led to l"c;ar a speedy change for the worse, and imme- 
diately consultiid her physician. An examination discovered a 
sudden and fatal failing in the o])tic nerve, and the information 
was inparted, MS gently as possible, that the patient could not 
retain her sight more tb;ui a few days at most, and was liable 
to be totally deprived of it nt any moment. The aflected mother 
returned to her home, quietly made suidi arrangements as 
would occur to one about to commence so tlark a journey of life, 
and Mien had her two littU^ children, attired in their brightest 
and sweetest costumes, brought to her; and so, witii their little 
faces lifted to her's, and tears gathering for some great mis- 
fortune that tliey hardly realized, the light iaded out of their 
mother's eyes, leaving an ineilaceabh^ picture of those dearest 
to her on earth — a memory of bright faces that will console 
her in many a dark day. — Covington (Ky.) Journal. 

A Texas lady, seeing the above, has interwoven it into song. 
The l\)llowing beautiful lines were wi-itten in 1878, though never 
before published. They will be fountl truly touching. With 
the ingenuity and feeling of the true [xxilcss, slu; has stated all 
t)ie facts in her song in the most sw(!et, plaintive manner. None 
but a mother can truly appreciate them. — IJcIton {Te.r.) Journal. 

'AN it be that on the buulscape 
: Comes this shadow with the spring? 
7 Have I looked my last on naturc'— 
lT])on every living thing? 
Nature, I have loved thee eviu"— 
Azure sky and verdant woods ! 
Can she from my sight be fading, 
In her brightest, bravest moods ! 



Hut this iiioni, my cradled darlings, 

C'luuub-liko in their repose, 
Snioto mo with a terror nameless 

'riiat (Jod only, only knows ! 
Filled me with a sudden sadness, 

Cleft my heart with piereing pains; 
Can it be, this growing darkness 

1 must battle with in vain V 

1 could give uj) nature's Ix^auties, 

iSunsct splendors, sparkling wave, 
God's magnificence of color 

That to bless the sight he^gave 
If I still might scan th(^ fac(!S 

lie has given me to love — 
H(;aven lies in this sweet ])leasure ! 

Will He all my joy remove? 

I'inds the artist his ideal 

When he views a form divine? 
Mother-worship is as real 

For the babe her arms entwine. 
Bring them to my yearning bosom, 

Those dear bab(!S I yet may see, 
For no more a sight so i)reeiou8 

In this life may come to mc. 

Robe them in their brightest garments ; 

Witii a mother's love and pride 
Wrought I them, so little thinking 

Sueli dark future should betide. 
Let my soul forget its sorrow, 

For one moment hush its fears. 
While I gaze u[)on my treasures, 

'J'hough my sight is dimmed with tears. 

In ihe long, dark way before me. 
Shut out fi'oni their haij|)y smiles 

From their eager, kindling glances,' 
From their playful, winning wiles,— 

That svveet picture in its freshness, 
Will in loving memory, 



J. 



118 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Brightest in the gh)omy distance 
Evermore abide with me. 

Let me thus with joy enfold them 

For one blissful moment more ; 
Even while I thus behold them, 

Could the short, sharp pang be o'er, 
Could the sun drop out of heaven. 

Leave the world a blank at noon 
Is it so? They fade, they vanish — 

Conies the night-time, then, so soon? 



MATEBNITY. 



'HERE came to me "neath holy autumn skies, 
>tf ; A bud, a tender, glorious germ 
^^From out the very walls of Paradise ! 
With all its tiny petals folded close. 

And fed by sunshine bright and warm ; 
Pore as the lily, painted like the rose, 
A beaut}' rarer did my bud disclose. 

% -if. -)f ')(. % * 

Needless to say I loved it ! Needless tell — 

Oh, mj'stery of motherhood ! 
How sacredly I prized my babe; how well, 
How patiently I bore my pain, that he 

Might blended in him have all good, — 
That he, my precious boy, might live and be 
All that my destiny denied to me. 

And when spring came, and other buds blew out, 

And filled the air with fragrance ; when 
The wandering bee buzzed busily about, 
Lured to the orchard by its faint perfume 

And flowering regalia, then 
His eye 'gan brighter, and his cheek to bloom, 
My truant blossom from his Eden home ! 



L 



The violets in the woods are not more blue 

And gladsome than my baby's eyes ; 
Nor softer spring's first dove-notes than the coo 
Of his sweet voice. I breathe upon the chords 

And my ^olian harp' replies ! 
As inarticulate as warbling birds, 
As musical, as matchless, are his words. 

And springtime blossoms ever in my heart. 

And love's own gladness therein lies ; 
A nearer heaven, of which he seems a part, 
Above me l)ending, smiling and serene, 

I see, deep in my baby's eyes. 
Sure heaven is not so far from earth, I ween. 
While I can hold this treasured link between. 



°-0§ 



120 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MPxS. LEE C. HARBY 




1^ RS. HAllBY is a Jewess, and a native of Charleston, 
South Carolina. For the past few years her fugitive 
poems have been floating about, and occasionally ap- 
pearing in the literary periodicals North and South. 

In 1881, and while editing the Amaranth, 1 wrote to Mrs. 
Harby for a contribution. In response to ni}'^ letter she sent 
me the little poem, Rain. It appeared for the first time in the 
Amaranth, December, 1881, and was well received. I remem- 
ber to have seen it copied in several secular papers of the State. 
In most instances it was miserably printed, and did great in- 
justice to its author. This little lyric is fairly illustrative of 
her style, and exhibits an ability far above mediocrity. It is 
in the Poesque vein, and full of happy hits of fancy : — 




ilTH a cadence soft and low 

Falls the rain ! 
All the heavy grasses seem 

Bowed with pain. 
And the tender ilowers droop 

To the sod, 
Bent like penitents that kneel 

To their God. 
While the trees loom indistinct 

Thro' the mist ; 
And the roses red and sweet. 

That were kissed 
By the sun to fragrant life, 

Blanch with fear. 
From each starry jasmine's cup 

Drops a tear 
Pure as those the angels shed 

O'er man's fall j 



And the dark green moss that clings 

To the wall, 
Drinks tlie rain up thirstily. 

On thoir stalks 
Lilies bend their stately heads. 

Thro' the walks 
Tiny strcamhits running clear, 

Make it seem 
Like some fairy island viewed 

In a dream. 
Oh ! m}^ garden brings a joy 

To my heart, 
As I stand and watch the rain- 
Far apart 
From the throng around me there, 

Who know naught 
Of the healing that may come, 

All unsought, 
From the hand of Nature's Ood 

To the soul — 
When it i>ants with weary breath 

For the goal. 
When of all our l)iightest hopes 

None remain, 
Life is dark, and eveiy thought 

Brings Imt pain — 
Then in soft gray clouds that veil 

lirilliant skies, 
And in sheeted rain that falls, 

Comfort lies. 
When all nature seems to join 

In our grief, 
From the symi)athy she yields 

8]) rings relief; 
WhiU) the Mowers teach to us 

Ijcssons sweet, 
Of the solace to be found 

At God's feet ! 
Tbus the clouds that dim our live -5 

All depart, 
Washed away by blessed tears 
From the heart ! 



122 PoKTs AND Poetry of Texas. 



]\Irs. llarby inluM'itcd Iicr literary talent IVoin Ium' niotlior's 
side of the house. Her jirandlather, Isaae llarhy, was one of 
the literary lifj;hts of C'harleston, and famous alike I'or his dra- 
matic taste and criticisms, and was for a niuuher of years con- 
nected with the press of that city. Her father, Max K. Cohen, 
received liis education at Glascow, wiiniing several medals for 
scholarshij). His father piave him a largo and well-stocked 
plantation near (Miarleston. Ho was l)rave, rich, and ,u;enerous, 
and connected with every enterprise calculated to build up the 
city t)f Charleston, and when ho died tho city erected a memo- 
rial stone to his memory, and ])laced it in the Charh^ston Or- 
phan Asylum, of which institution he was one of the founders 
and directors. 

The war coming on when it did, interfered greatly with Mrs. 
ITarby's education ; consequently it is limited. It is such as 
she has gaincnl from close reading, self-teaching, and travel. 

At nine years of age 1 lind her writing verses and living an 
unrestrained life on her father's plantation. She was married 
to a cousin — J. D. Harby — in ISOO. The young couple at once 
came to Texas. In 1ST2, she began to write })oems, which were 
eagerl}'^ sought by tho State papers. In 1880, she read before 
the Texas Press Association her poenj, To The J^rci^s. In 1881, 
she was elected editor of the Ladies' Department of the Jewish 
South. 

Hhe has written but few stories. INIcMillan i^^ Co. paid her 
for one a year or two ago. She has written but one long poem. 
She is preparing her poems for publicatiiui, and \\ ill give them 
to the world soon. 

Mrs. Harby has written sufficient to fill several volumes. The 
poems I present here were written since her residence in this 
State, and are representatives ones. Unae Vitae is tenderly 
beautiful, and is suggestive of Heine : — 

SIC II — a dream of Heaven 1 
A kiss — and Earth's sweet leaven. 
A wife — her honor keeping ; 
A babe — and bitter weeping. 



Poets and Poktuy oi<' Tkxas. 



123 



A ^M'uvo --sl<'('|) well, youii,!^' luollier — 

A man will \n\v. juiollicr ! 

Wooed and W(m1 and her baity Itoni ; 

I'ain and death in lile'H lirst morn. 

Softly slcM'p in thy j^ravo, younj;' wife, 

Freed lorevtM' from (earthly strilo. 

Kost thee widl ; tlion hast playiid thy pait — 

Jiifo luiH halm I'oi' thy lnishan(l's heart I 

J I(M- hest poem and one (hat will live lonL!,<M', perhaps, than 
anytliinfj; sIk! has ever yet giv(!n to tin; world, is one she jirizes 
V(M-y li<;htly. It is stranjjje that sonn; ean work uneonseiouH of 
theii' ji,iris — work and toil — prochuu; and reproduee, yet Hee no 
beauty in their work. The Boole of LiJ'i' is sn^f}^(;stiv(^, thouj^dit- 
ful, and rare. Wh(n'(! ean bo found ji niort; beautiful simile 
than is in this sim|»le line : — 

" TIk' bindini;' of I;ife's Uook is iIop(\" — 

Ihit 1 will j!,i\c the poem in lull : — 

■t 
■"\nil lil'(!'s a book"; a, difi'iiint |»a^e 



*yijj jj Is turned v.idi day; 

'i The mysteries tlu; next conceals 

Oh, who can say ? 
'i'he bindinjf of Life's iJook is IIop(!-^ 

I'y Faith inwov(! 
Tlu; irohU^n rim around its lea,v(!S 

is human Lovi;. 
And ea,eh event, each deed of ours 

Itself prints tlnu-o — 
In blurrcMl type Sin, while Virtut; stamps 

In letters clear, 
lilaeh noble a(!t performed is marked 

In blue and f^old — 
But all unjust or wiekcnl thoughts 

liiack liiujs (^idold. 
A bright, illuminated scroll 

Adorns each pa^e 
For each tem[)tation wv, withstand 

From youth to age. 



Our days its numbered folios are, 

And Death its elas]) ! 
The pow'r to nmke this Volume fair 

Is in our grasp : 
So live, that when all work is done 

And laid aside. 
Our children's eyes may look upon 

This Book, with pride ; 
And void of shame or haunting fear 

It may be read ; 
Then, haply, we may rest among 

The honored Dead. 

Three Pansies and The Wooing OHt are also very beautiful 
poems. The former gives us an idea of what the anther would 
like woman's character to be — pure and spotless. The latter 
mentioned poem — though somewhat faulty in measure — gives 
us her picture of an ideal husband in the answer of Cleo. But 
I can not give space for^them. 



amiu— JM»w> i [-M 



L 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 125 



A. M. HOBBY. 



r4; LFRED M. HOBBY was boni in Macon, Georgia. Soon 
Jl after his birth his parents moved to Florida, where his 
^ childhood was passed. He came to Texas early in life. 
He took an active interest in politics before the war, and in the 
Legislature and on the hustings he achieved an enviable reputa- 
tion as an orator. During the war he commanded a Confeder- 
ate regiment with much distinction, and at its close settled^ in 
Galveston, and devoted himself to commercial pursuits. Col. 
Hobby was a man of culture, with an understanding singularly 
comprehensive, and with the analytical, was combined the 
poetic faculty in a high degree. He was a laborious worker, 
and his writings embrace a wide range of literary and scientific 
subjects-critical, biographical, historic, agricultural, and poetic. 
During the summer of 1875, he made a horseback tour along 
the Texas border, and wrote a series of interesting letters, entitled 
The Frontier From the Saddle, which sustained his reputation as 
a brilliant writer, and a man of fine poetic imagination. He 
devoted much of his time to study. His talents were recog- 
nized throughout the State, and displayed in every mental and 
material field of labor. As a citizen, a literary and business 
man he was one of the most i)opular residents in the State. 
He was polite, independent in tliought and act, and possessed 
fine colloquial powers, remarkably social and temperate, having 
never tasted tobacco or intoxicating liquors of any kind. 

Col. Hob])y has written comparatively little poetry, but that 
which he has given to the world is ample to satisfy me that 
had he courted the Muses exclusively, he would have gamed 
considerable distinction, and attained a very high degree ot 
celebrity. The following brief extract breathes a melancholy 
tenderness that poetic feelings alone could inspire :— 



12R Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



"Drnpe in p;looni our Houtlicrn ensign — 

(lonlly foltl its crimson bars 
Wliilc cyi)ress wreaths around we twine, 

And dim with tears its burning stars. 
H(>arts are throbbing, eyes are weeping 

Tears on nobU^ Lubbock's grave ; 
Cahn in (k'ath his form is sleei)ing — 

Ijamcnled Lubbock — true and brave." 

To the ])recc(bng 1 shall adil an extract from (\il. Hobby's 
reply to the Ldinnil for (he SloJcn I'd, by Mollie K. Moore 
Davis: — 

"Tlu> poems then oft would my master rehearse, 

Ami my feet wouhl keep time to thy magical verse; 

And there would he tell, as he journyed along 

How great was his genius, and splendid the song ; 

How mortality pure, in thy verse was enshrined, 

And the grace of fancy around it entwined ; 

How truth, in her grandeur, pervades the whole, 

l^jularging {\\v mint! and improving the soul ; 

How sublime in its uses thy mystical art ; 

While it awakens new life, sweetly mellows tlu> heart ; 

How it lightens the weight of his chastising rod. 

And ])oints us in piMiitcncc upward to (iod ; 

How it cheiMs the desponding and lonely heart up, 

And sweetens the draught of life's bitterest cup. 

The author of the Litnuiit fur a Stolen Pet occnipics so conspi- 
cuous a place in our Texas i>oetry, that it has been necessary to 
give a notici' of Ium- giMiius somewhere elsi>. Hut the poem and 
the reply to it richly deserve the great populaiily which they 
have for several years liountifully enjoyed. 

The genius of Col. Hobby was such as to demand a place 
among the best writers in our State. He had an inexhaustable 
power of circumstantial description, betraying him unto minute- 
ness, and leatling him to speak of man rather than group to- 
gether Nature in all its inlinitude. I can not feel in his writings 
the transports of delight by which T am moved while reading 



Poets and Poetiiy of Texas. 127 



those strange and gorgeous descriptions ol' Mrs. Amelia V. Pur- 
dy's — produced by a more romantic imagination. (Jol. Hobby 
carries his readers to the tomb of " our dead," and tliere culls a 
flowery bou(pict of heartfelt sympathies, and recalls to our 
minds the wondrous scenes of enchantment and beauty em- 
balmed, and our feelings are aroused by the recollection of their 
many noble and daring deeds. He is the poet of Our Dead. 
With a kind word for every mourner, he tiansforms their groans 
into a flood of ideal and poetic l)eauty. He lived in the enjoy- 
ment of many blessings which rarely fall to the poetic race — 
competence, case, rural scenes, and an ample command of the 
means of study. Mrs. Gathing has finely alluded to his poetic 
and imagimitivc genius in the following lines from the poet Col- 
lins : — 

Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind 
Believed the magic wonders which he sung. 

For several months Col. Hobb}'' was involvc^d in criminal pro- 
ceedings, but was honorably acquitted by a jury of his country- 
men. After the termination of these, he went to Mexico where 
he died February Hth, 1881. 

He was held in high esteem by his contemporaries in Texas, 
and when the information reached the State that he was dead 
there was great sorrow, and that gifted lady, Mary Hunt McCaleb, 
penned to his memory the following ex(j[uisite lines : — 

The warm Southern winds wander over the sea 
The sunshine is lying on lowland and lea, 

The sky seeming never so bright ; 
Put slowly and silently over my soul. 
The murmuring waves of memory roll, 

That shut out the glory of light. 

For one whom I knew in a happier day 
Lies shrouded and cold in a grave far away. 

With the grass growing over his breast : 
While the heart that (;lung to him so fondly in life, 
With the love of a tender and heroic wife, 

Mourns over the solace of his rest. 




I knew them and loved them before trouble came 
To darken their lives and to shadow a name 

That was once such a glory and pride, — 
Before the last sorrowful die had been cast, 
And hop(! lay enshrouded, and cold in the past 

Their ships drifting wrecked on th(> tide. 

Too trusting of others his heart may have been, 
If loving and trusting indeed be a sin — 

How few are exempt from the crime ! 
How few but have (;herished theii- idols of cjiiy 
To see them in nothingness cruadjle away 

And fade from the records of time. 

His great heart has moaned itself (juii^t at last, 
Bent, broken and erushed by the i)itilrss blast 

Lies silent and cold in his breast ; 
But his star that grew pale and went down in a cloud, 
Rising out of the grave and disdaining the shroud, 

Brightly beams in the land of the blest. 

I think it eminently proper to elose my sketch of Col. A. M. 
IIobl)3' by (pioting these lines. I am sure that they are the 
heart-oll'erings of one who knew him long and well. This act 
of the gifted Mrs. IMeCaleb is so mueh like the imj)ulse that 
moved Col. Hobl)y whenever death (;ut low one of his warm 
and honored friends. 

TO THE MEMORY OF COL. THOS S. 
LUBBOCK. 



DEDK'.VrUI) TO OOV. J{. V. (^UHHOCIv. 

RAI'E in gloom our Southern ensign — 
(Jently fold its crimson bars, 
* While cypress wreaths around viv twine, 
And dim with tears its burning stars. 
Hearts are throbbing, eyes are weeping 

Tears, on noble Lubbock's grave ; 
Calm in death his form is sleeping — 
Lamented Lubbock — true and brave. 



1 




But yesterday, the minute gun 

Came booming on our shore, 
And on our day a shadow hung — 

Brave Terry was no more. 
He died on the soil that gave him birth, 

Defending his country's trust; 
Our vandal foes he crushed to earth, 

Like servile worms of dust. 

Thou, Lubbock, unto thee we turned, 

To lead our Texan band ; 
We knew what fires within tliee burned, 

What courage nerved thy hand. 
We felt that thou wouldsi win from fame 

A laurel wreath of glory, 
And deeds of valor give thy name 

High place in Southern story. 

When, years ago, a single star 

niumined our Western sky, 
Its radiant beams were hailed afar. 

And caught his youthful eye. 
Forsaking home, to aid the brave, 

Foes and danger scorning, 
To his adopted mother gave. 

The vigor of life's morning. 

Where'er her ensign was unfurled, 

Beneath were souls to dare ; 
And valor's arm foes backward hurled, 

In victory's meteor glare. 
He saw it wave, that Lone Star flag. 

Above the Rrocky Mountains, 
Where frozen tears from the icy crag, 

Weep into silver fountains. 

He saw that Hag rellected gleam, 

Down dv.v.]) in Pecos river; 
Its azure folds, its silvery sheen, 

On flowing waters (piiver. 
He saw it meet the rising day, 

On Santa Fee's l)road plain. 
Which cold and cheerless stretched away, 

Where gloom and silence reign. 






He saw that star the Heavens climb, 

Through battle's lurid light. 
Still upward in its strength sublime, 

Unutterably bright. 
In Aztec's dungeons dark and deep, 

Its beams resplendent shedding, 
He heard success, along fame's steep, 

Our mystic future treading. 

Unchanging still through rest or toil, 

His heart for Texas burning, 
It loved her sons and blood bought soil. 

It knew no shade of turning. 
And when our honor was assailed, 

Indignant shouts were raised ; 
The Lone Star fluttered in the gale, 

And reddened, flashed and blazed. 

It swept on high the fleecy cloud, 

It sought a loftier station. 
And joined ' midst cheers of freemen loud. 

The Southern constellation. 
And there it shines, God bless that star ! 

God bless her sister stars ! — 
'Tis Venus in the days of peace, 

In war, the blood-red Mars. 

Upon Manassas' gory field. 

Where fell the shafts of death. 
Its new-born splendor stood revealed, 

' Midst battle's sulphurous breath ; 
Where thickest rained war's iron hail. 

And gushed the crimson tide. 
Undaunted there our Lubbock stood. 

Brave Terry by his side. 

Far in advance on Fairfax heights. 

Raised by a tyrant's minion, 
They struck the flag that dared insult 

Our honored Old Dominion. 
Enough ! they were strong friends in youth, 

In Spring-time's pleasant weather — 
Two souls close bound in bonds of truth, 

In death they sleep together. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas, 



131 



Time's brightest page their name adorn, 

Their deeds are history's trusts, 
And fame's green laurels, fresh as morn, 

Will crown their honored busts. 
The fevered frame and aching head 

Of Lubbock is at rest ; 
He sleepeth well, 'neath Southern skies, 

Still looking to the West. 

Proud Carolina ne'er has borne 

A truer son or braver, 
And like herself, he trampled on 

Power's threat or favor, 
But pulseless lies that heart of worth 

Beneath the swelling sod. 
His body with its mother earth, 

His spirit with its God. 

On hearts bereaved — a pall is cast, 

And withered seem life's flowers; 
Oh ! let your tears flow free and fast ; 

With tiiem shall mingle ours. 
Eternal honor to the brave. 

May Spring her garlands wreathe 
Immortal blooms to deck his grave. 

And Christ his soul receive. 



THE SENTINEL'S DREAM OF HOME. 




'IS dead of night, nor voice nor sound 

Breaks on the stillness of the air, 
The waning moon goes coldly down 
On frozen tields and forests bare. 
The solemn stars are glittering high, 

While here my lonely watch I keep. 
To guard the brave with anxious eye, 
Who sweetly dream and soundly sleep. 

Perchance of home these sleepers dream, 
Of sainted ones no longer here. 



: Ism* 



132 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Whose mystic forms low bend unseen, 
And breathe soft whispers in his ear. 

Sleep on, sleep on, my comrades brave. 
Quaff deep tonight of pleasure's cup, 

Ere morning's crimson banners wave, 
And " reveille " shall rouse them up. 

The sportive winds and waves tonight 

Seem tired of their boist'rous play. 
And armed ships, with signal lights 

And bristling guns, before me lay. 
But not of ships nor battle fields, 

With clash of arms and roll of drums — 
To softer scenes my spirit yields — 

Tonight a sweeter vision comes. 

It is thine own beloved one 

Whose kiss I feel, whose smile I see ; 
Oh ! God protect that wife at home. 

Begirt with growing infancy. 
Tonight, tonight, I'me with you there, 

Around my knees fond children gather, 
And climb, the envied kiss to share. 

Amidst the sounds of ''Husband," "Father." 

Such thoughts my eyes with moisture fill, 

My bosom heaves, my pulses start; 
Close down I'll press my gun, to still 

The wild emotions of my heart. 
Hush pleading one, I cannot stay, 

The spoiler comes with fiendish wrath, 
Black ruins mark his bloody way, 

And blazing homes have lit his path. 

"Go, husband, go ! God nerve thy blows. 

Their footsteps foul blot from our shore. 
Strike 'till our land is free from foes 

Whose hands are stained with Southern gore. 
Strike, husband, strike ! I'd rather weep 

The widow of a patriot brave. 
Than lay my heart (I'd scorn to sleep). 

Beside a subjugated slave. 



Thy woman's soul is true and grand, 

The battle-field my home shall be, 
Until our country'U proudly stand, 

Acknowledged as a nation free ; 
'Till then, yes ! welcome fields of strife — 

The victor's shout, the vanquish'd's cry, 
Where ebbs the crimson stream of life — 

Where c{uick and dead together lie ; 

'Mid bursting shell and squadron's dash, 

Where broken ranks disordered fly — 
Where angry cannon's flash on flash 

Paints hell upon the lurid sky ; 
Where many a brave shall sink to rest. 

And fondiy cherished hopes will set, 
And blood that warms the manly breast, 

Will dim the glist'ning bayonet. 

When these are past, and victory's sun 

In undim'd splendor lights the skies, 
And peace by dauntless valor won, 

And proudly free our banner flies : 
Then to my western prairie home 

With eager haste each nerve shall strain, 
Nor from its hallow'd precincts roam, 

Unless my country calls again. 

There unalloyed shall be our bliss ; 

We'll watch the sun give morning birth, 
And sinking, leave his parting kiss 

UponHhe dewy lip of earth. 



The moon has waxed and waned away; 

The Morning Star rides pale and high, 
Fond dreams of home no longer stay, j 

But fade like stars on morning sky. 



134 



Pl)]aVS AND POETUY OK TkXAS. 



THOMAS E. HOGG. 



T 

C%^ II l^i lUKU'rlyinj;- pliilosophy oI'Mo^raphical hislory is simple. 
^vU^ ) Jt is not (lissiiuilar in tlii" iiulividuai (uiscs from that which 
ag}j;r(>^at('s (he lolal. C!ha,ra('l(M'an(l the incidents ofan indi- 
vidnal life, and (iicir rchition to an inlhu'ncr iqion us, are the sali- 
ent reaiurcs which dill'ercntiate one life from another. As will bo 
seen, the subject of Ibis sketcli fills no mean place in the liter- 
ary ffalaxy t)f the State. 

(Jen. .loseph L. llo,ii;i;', the father of Tbos. K., was a man of 
public lif(> in (iin(> of ])ea('e and a soldier in time of war. lie 
became a citizen ol' Naeogdocihes county, as early as 1841. Ilav- 
imj; (illed many places of public trust and honor up to the time 
of tlie war between the States, lie directed his services now to 
oigani/ing and drilling companies for the lield of battle. He 
fell in the san}>;uinary struj^gle at Corinth, bi-arin^? the honors of 
a briuadier «j;eneral, which ho had gallantly won. 

Thos. b^. llogt"- was born at Nacogdoches, on the 1'.) of June, 
ISTJ, and four years later, when peace with Mexico hail been 
concluded, he became identilicd with the scenery and society 
of Cherokee, his father having become a citizen of that county. 
It was here, cradled in the la}) of allection, wandering at will 
and alone — his brothers being too small for companions, for ho 
was the oldest i>f them living — among the romantic hills about 
liis " Mountain lh)nu^'' that he caught the inspiration of poesy, 
as he sang in after years : — 

Unresting from the morning dawn 

'Till day's bright torch had waned and gone, 

With my own thoughts ci»mnuming; 
'Twas nothing strange that I should find 
A friend with gentle touch and kind 

My youthful heart a-tuning. 



I 



At sevcMitccn, liUo most Ixtys of that at^'c, he niaiiifcsted a 
rosth>ssn('ss under lioinc discnpline — which was nioic than ordi- 
n.'uily strict — and cxpiossod ii, desire for freetloni. The wise 
and |)iii(h lit f;i1h(M-, ever watchful and (hisirous of keeping the 
inouhUuii,- of the mind in his own phistie hand, yiehh'd to the 
wish of his cliihl, and pei'mitled him to a(;eompany a trusted 
friend— Judge A. J. Hood— (o ids iiome, in Weatherford, osten- 
sibly to study hiw, hut in reality to give his fiery spirit more 
latitude. Here, in ISCO, Uv joined a company of volunteers, 
who went out against the Indian depredators of tiiat region, 
under Col. John H. l>aylor. Of this campaign he gives an 
amusing account under the pen namc! " Peter (iift." 

In 1861, he wrot(! his father from Weatherford : "Capt. Jor- 
don is raising a company in this and adjoining counties. I 
have enlisted, hut fear he will not he received by tins State. If 
he is not, and I do not get to go under State authority, I will 
go whether mustered in or not." 

When his father requc^sted him to come home and go with a 
company forming there, he wrote! "If I thought I could 
reach ('heiokee before the departure of her trooi)s, nothing 
would adbrd hk; more pleasure, as I would i)refer going with 
friends, though I can only serve viy country in eitluu- case, for I 
know that fun is the last on a soldier's list," lUit the troops 
were to organize at Dallas, where; he met and Joined tlm chiv- 
alry of old Cherokee —friemls who welcomed him with glad 
voices as he cast his lot with theirs, for ihey kiu'w him to be 
brave and true; and though reared so tenderly, tln^y felt that 
they could trust him for all that a proud young j)atriot and 
brave soldier could do. J lis comrades and commander say of 
him that he was void of fear, never flinching, and ever ready to 
answer " I " to calls for picked men for hard service. Although 
always with the foremost in battle, he was never wounded. His 
clothes, however, were pierced by the enemy's balls, and at 
Brashier City, of which engagement he gives a grajjhic account 



■»■■■■ 



136 PoKTS AND Poetry of Texas. 



in his Reminiscences of the War, his horse was killed under him, 
he narrowly escapint!,- deatli himself. 

War's fearful thundering tones greeted liim Ihst at Elkhorn, 
and throughout that whole eiunpaign, he was ever at his jiost. 
When the army erossed the Mississippi river, he went with his 
father's hriga(h' as adjutant. After the death of his nohle father 
at Corinth, he proeured a transfer to the Trans-Mississippi 
Department, Baylor's Texas Calvary Regiment. Soon after 
joining that army he was promoted to a eaptainey for gallant 
conduct and comnumded his company throughout all the lleree 
lighting in Louisiana. 

When it was determined that Brashier City nuist he taken at 
all hazzard, a detachment of picked men were ordered across 
the lake in canoes and sugar coolers to make an assault upon 
the fort from the rear, whilst General Tom Cin-en held the en- 
emy's attention across the hay from the front, (ieneral (ireen's 
guns hoomed the signal for assault just as the devoted band of 
braves debarked. 

Of this engagement, Hogg writes': ''There is a charm in the 
uproar of biittle more ))otent over the chivalric soul than home 
with all its comforts ; love with all its charms, or l)eauty with 
all her wiles. Major Hunter, with the hound of a lion, leaped 
upon the strand ; all followed his example ; and suddenly turn- 
ing, he ordered the boats to be shoved adrift, teimnautless, and 
addressing his solders, said : ' 'Tis victory now or soldiers' 
graves ; my boys — fm'ward !' On they rushed, without a pi hit, 
through the briery swamps, guided only by the thunders of the 
beleagueriMl garrison. .Just as Green w\is feeling like a Moses 
in view of the [u-omised land, his soul sinking in despair, when 
all seemed lost, the furious yell of that daring band broke upon 
his ear, he looked — he saw^ the banner of his country borne 
aloft in the dread melee. Like one entranced he saw its crim- 
son folds siidv to the earth. It rose again ! Again it fell, again 
it was raised and on it went, lie recognized tlie familiar shout 
of his chosen band ; he could distinguish the opposing cplumns 



of musketry as the death rattle vacillated to and fro. Ho saw 
tliemin deadly strife commingle ! He saw his own brave bay- 
onets clear the bristling ramparts ! He saw the cherished flag 
wave defiantly to the breeze, borne by friendly hands ! He saw 
the foeman's banner droop and in its stead float his own proud 
stars and bars ! Ho turned his nobh; brow to God, and with a 
heart too full for utterance, from his silent soul, he thanked his 
Maker for the victory." 

"Soon ai'ter the termination of the war, and while on his re- 
turn from a visit to relatives in Alabama, he came by Corinth 
for the purpose of linding ami marking. his honored father's 
grave; and there, over the " hallowed si)ot where he had left 
his noble sire to rest," he caught the inspiration for hie great- 
est poem. His heart was filled with bitterness to see "the 
mark of delving implements " which he learned was made by 
the conquering foe in search of treasure, and upon such wanton 
sacrilege he poured forth his wounded spirit's terrible wrath in 
verse. His friends have regretted that this poem was left out 
of his published collection." — W, E. Davis. 

While visiting friends in Mississippi, he met Miss A. E. Mc- 
Math, to whom he was married July 12, 18G6. Shortly after 
this event, I find him fairly starting out in life at the Old 
Mountain Home, of which he sings : — 

The hush of death is in thy halls ; 
Ah, yes ! the death that now enthralls 

The heart that made thee bright ; 
And I alone, of all the band 
That 'round thy hearth joined heart and hand, 

Am left with thee tonight. 

Possessing uncommon literary attainments, having devoted, 
with assiduity, his early youth to the great authors whom ho 
still loved as he did his land of Dreams — of which he says : — 

Dreams are the souls ambrosial cheer, 
Sweet crumbs of bliss by angels given, 

That, 'mid the pain and sorrow here. 
Poor man may have a taste of Heaven — . 

10 



H^^aiH 



138 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



It cost him a struggle to accept the hard realities of life, and to 
stem the tide of poverty that rushed in like an angry flood upon 
our desolated land at the close of the war. He writes : — 

lUit friendship, with ollicious care, 
Oft whispers in uiy heedless ear 

"O, Muse, that I eschew thee ! 
That sorrow's frown the way attends, 
And thriftless want the journey ends 

Of him who dares to woo thee ! 

They'd have me frown upon thy smile, 
Arm \nc. with cunning craft and guile 

And toil to grasp and gather ; 
lUit while within my humble home 
One ray of fortune deigns to come. 

Will cherish one another. 

We'll let who will his hopes condense 
To that mean focus, pounds and pence, 
And worth compute by dollars." 

>lt :1c * ^H • * -V- * * 

Ilis heart was ever filled with the principle which dictated 
his beautiful poem, Deceive Not. 

In 18 — , he was elected Judge of Cherokee county; but he 
was turned out of office by Gov. E. J. Davis. The order being 
revoked, he resumed his official position. 

In 1872, he moved to Denton, and soon surrounded himself 
with friends, and in 1876 was elected County Judge of Denton 
county. 

His poetical fires having been stifled for a time, did not crip- 
ple his ambition; for while he strove to be useful as a citizen, 
he was earnestly striving to accumidate a sufficiency for his 
interesting little family, that he might turn again to his silent 
harp and tune it perhaps for bolder and grander flights of min- 
strelsy. But death ended his song on the 27th of Septem- 
ber, 1880. 

As a Christian, he was very devout, and he gave the tenth of 



J 




all lie made to charity, and had a charity fund— and this fund, 
at his death, held several notes against him, so careful was he 
to keep a correct account of this tithe. As a devoted husband, 
fatlicr, and brother; friend, citizen, and poet, the too early death 
of Mr. Hogg is long to be regretted. 

Yet though— 
The pen that gcuiius wielded long 
The talisman of wit and song 
Hath writ its ending page, — 

he is not dead ; for he has woven for himself 

A garland bright 
Whose freshness will outlive the night 
Of deatli, and bloom amid the blight 
Of sepulchers. 

Many of his best poems were omitted in his published work, 
some of whieli possess a high order of merit, and should not 
be lost to the literary world. 

In 1873, his poems were collected and published under the 
title of TJiG Fate of Marvin, and Other Poems, bearing the im- 
print of E. II. Cushing, Houston, Texas, This volume con- 
tains many poetic gems, and had a large number of readers. It 
has been impossible for me to make extracts from all his worthy 
poems. I have used every means to indicate his true place 
both as a citizen and as a literarian. I end my sketch of Mr, 
Hogg by quoting one of his favorite poems— TAc Ftirloucjhed 
Soldier : — 



'^ffjMS furlough came — the soldies hied 

H_|l|i| Back to his native land — 

'^J'^God speed you well !" his comrades cried, 
"May weal and joy with you abide," 
As each one shook his hand. 

"Farewell, my friends — proud land, farewell ! 
Troud land, despite thy foes — 



140 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Though battle's fiery billows swell 
U])on thee, and the hosts of hell 
Assail thee, still thy glory's spell 
Will rise above thy woes." 

With stc]) well trained in Stonewall's corps 

lie measures oil" the miles ; 
AVhile seene on scene from days of yore, 
Long treasured deep in memory's store, 

His solitude beguiles. 

Now Hope her gilded crayon takes, 

And paints ui)on his soul 
A holy dream of bliss that makes 
-His i)ace increase, while Fancy slakes 

Her thirst at Cupid's bowl. 

Ah I none shall of my coming hear 

INIy home I'll reach tonight; 
And when sleep chains my Helen's ear. 
And in her breast drowns ev'ry care, 

I'll steal on tiptoe light; 
And take my station at her side, 
And read the fairy dreams that glide 

Among her features bright. 

" Methinks I hear my brother's call 
To halt me as I tread tiie hall. 

With cat-step througli the gloom ; 
Too young for Avar, yet true and well 
I ween he stands a sentinel 

Around my hearth and home." 

* ;}; ^ ;K ;H sic 

The gate is reached — back to its hinge 

It moves — the walk is past ; 
Nor heeded scarce its verdant fringe, 
Va-o. near the threshold, with a cringe 

He stands — his heart beats fast. 

Another step ! — with dizzy head 
He stands within the door — 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 141 



" Who's there !" calls out as from the dead 
A voice—'' who's there !" the echo said ; 
The answer was a stealthy tread 
Advancing on the floor. 

" Who's there, I say !" pealed forth again 

The voice, in wilder mood ; 
" Speak, or you die !" the threat'ning strain 
Came now with all the speaker's main, 

But mute the soldier stood. 

A click ! — a flash ! — a gun ! — a groan ! — 

'* Quick, sister, light the lamp !" 
"Ah, mercy!" said a voice-^'twas known — 
" My hrother !" "Oh, my husband own !" 
They seized the clay, but life had flown— 
His brow was chill and damp ! 

They fell upon the warrior's form. 

The brother and the wife ! 
But he who'd faced the battle's storm 
Was cold, nor could their sighing warm 

His pulseless heart to life ! 



teoo. 



142 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MRS. GEN. SAM HOUSTON 



4 



tllE n;uno of Mrs. nouslon liad acquired an attvactivo 
sound to my ear before I read a line from her pen. She 
did not sliow her genius in her first productions. Genius 
never blazes forth at onee in its noon-day splendor. Bryant 
may have written remarkable verse at sixteen, and Pope may 
have lisped in numbers at five, but I am sure that neither 
Shakspeare nor Milton, Goethe nor Schiller achieved their great- 
ness without lonj;- and continued training. Tlie evolution of 
genius demands a continued and never-ceasing struggle. None 
can be developed without it, and the more powerful the greater 
the throe of parturition. Mrs. Houston's poetry is serious and 
aims at riveting our aflections at once. She conceives poetry 
to be the language of imagination and passion, and hinges on 
that which gives immediate pleasure or pain. She sees poetry 
in everything in nature in all its grandeur and simplicity. 
Hazlet says : "We shape things according to our own wishes 
and fancies without poetry ; but poetry is the most emphatic 
language that can be found for those creations of the mind 
which ecstacy is very cunning in." Poetry, according to Lord 
Bacon, has something divine in it, because it raises the mind 
and hurries it into sublimity, by conforming the shows of things ■ 
to the desires of the soul, instead of subjecting the soul to ex- 
ternal things as reason and history do. 

Mrs. Houston has not been called a poet of the loftiest en- 
thusiasm, of the strongest imagination, but she has a passion- 
ate sense of the beauties of nature and a deep insight into the 
workings of the heart ; with a quick tact for propriety of 
thought and manners as established by the forms and customs 
of society ; a sympathy with the sentiments and habitude of 



/' 




MRS. GEN. SAM HOUSTON. 



human life, as she felt them within the circle of illustrious 
friends. 

Margaret Lea was born near Marion, Alabama, April 11, 1819. 
Her young mind was trained under her father's eyes until her 
thirteenth year, when she was placed at school at Pleasant Val- 
ley Seminary, the most popular school of that State. While a 
pupil of that school, her genius rapidly developed, and she 
showed a remarkable talent for general literature. She devel- 
oped such aptness for literary knowledge that her teacher said 
to her parents : " Maggie will take her place in the galaxy of 
the great and learned writers of the day." She was already 
the brightest star in the circle of the rich' and poor. 

She first met Gen. Houston in 1839. While he and his 
staff were stopping a few days in Mobile, Col. M. A. Lea, her 
brother, invited the General and staff to take tea with him. 
They accepted the courteous invitation, and thus he was brought 
into contact with the lady who was to be his wife. This was in 
the sweet month of May, the season for fruits and flowers, and 
when all nature is alive with teeming and bustling life, and our 
natures are filled with love. Eyes met eyes, mind met mind, 
and heart met heart — there was a marriage of their souls. One 
year from that time (May, 1840) Gen. Houston returned to claim 
the fulfillment of the plighted vows. 

We here add a sketch of Mrs. Houston's life from the able 
pen of Wm. Carey Crane, D. D., LL. D., late President of Bay- 
lor University : 

" In her twenty-first year (1840) she was married to Gen. 
Sam Houston, then President of the Republic of Texas, and 
shared with him in all the fatigues of public life in Texas, 
through the checkered scenes of that wonderful man's life. Her 
influence upon her husband, both before and after his conver- 
sion ; her devotion to the Bible; her faithfulness and success 
in instructing her children in religious truths; her abiding in- 
terest in all the great enterprises of Christian zeal; her faithful 
support of the ministry; her constant attendance upon Divine 



w wmjmm smmumamsm 



144 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



service; her abstinence from all the fashionable follies incident 
to public life — licr trials, her sorrows, her sufferings, her joys 
and successes — deservedly rank her with the noble women who 
shared the toils and hardships and religious enthusiasm of Jud- 
son and Boardman. The wife of a great statesman and gen- 
eral — a giant among men — slie still felt that the highest honor 
on earth was to be a Christian. She was a Bible Christian. 
Few persons were more conversant with its precious contents. 
She was a woman of genius, and there are many specimens of 
Iver poetic power, reaching back to her childhood days, which 
claim for her a sure place among the i)Octic minds of the South. 
Four sons and four daughters survive her." 

Mrs. Houston died at her home in Independence, Texas, in 
1S67. She was a lady of great fortitude, and of remarkable 
moral courage. During a dark period of the Texas Rc}>ub]ic, 
Texas was threatened with an invasion from Mexico. The in- 
telligence spread the deepest alarm throughout the country. 
All along the western borders families were seen flying from j 
their habitations toward the interior. The public mind was | 

stirred by the wildest apprehensions. Evcr^'body knew the \ 
provocation that had been given to the enemy. The follies and | 
the disasters of the Santa Fe expedition seemed but a prelude 
to another Goliad or Alamo. The coast was without protection, 
and no army concentrated to march on the invaders. Houston 
called an extra session of Congress to consider the state of the 
country and to devise moans for national defense. They de- 
bated and legislated without much formalit}' or delay, for the 
impression was general that if anything was to be done it had 
better be done quickly. Their deliberations ended in passing 
a bill which invested Houston with dictatorial powers, and ap- 
l)ropriated ten millions of acres of the public domain to carry 
on a campaign. Apprehension had been felt, Avhile the bill was 
under debate, that Houston would veto it. The excitement was 
intense ; the capital was tilled with angry and desperate men. 
Their noisy clamor spread over the country. 



PoETB AND Poetry of Texas. 145 



All sorts of accusations were brought agiiinst Houston. He 
was told that his lifo would pay the forfeit if he vetoed the bill. 
But in the inidst of all this storm, Houston was ealin and cheer- 
ful. He stationed no guard around his house ; lie had no spies 
on the alert ; he did not inquire what was done on the streets. 
His wife reposed with perfect conlidenct; upon his character, 
and she calmly and eonlidingly sustained him by Iht placid 
and intelle(!tua.l conversation. Long after the lights had been 
extinguished through the town, and snllen, desperate armed 
men were gathered in secret meetings to plot and counterplot, 
the gay voice of his wife, mingled with the tones of the harp 
and the piano, was heard coming fortli from the open windows 
of Houston's dwelling. When this dark elond fell over the 
path of Houston, he buried his sorrows in tln^ (lowing bowl, 
and gave himself up to the enchantress. Hni the smiles of :m 
ad'ectionate and devoted wife snatched him from her folds and 
brought the wanderer back to the pure charities of home, and 
saved to the State its noblest citizen. The pages of history arc 
illustrated by accounts of her noble acts. 

I get the above illustrations of h(>r moral heroism parl-ly from 
the Life of Sam Houston, by C. ]*>lward [tester ; I am also in- 
debted to her sister, Mrs. lioberts, for valuable assistance in 
preparing this meagre outline of her life and history. Mrs. 
Houston ranks among the great and gooil, and did much to mold 
the Texan mind and life during her lifetime; and few names 
will b9 honored with a larger credit than that of Margaret Lea 
Houston. 

TO MY HUSBAND—DECEMBER, LH-L 



QJIIKAREST, the cloud hast left thy brow, 
^ [1 Th(! shade of thoughtfulness, of care 
'f And deep anxiety ; and now 

The sunshine of content is there. 



146 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Its sweet return with joy I hail : 
And never may tliy country's woes 

Again that hallow'd light dispel, 
And may thy bosom's calm repose. 

God hath crown'd thy years of toil 

With fruition; and I pray 
That on the harvest still His smile 

May shed its ever gladdening ray. 

Thy task is done ! another eye 

Than thine must guard thy country's weal 
And oh, may wisdom from on Jiigli 

To him the one true path reveal ! 

Where'erst was spread the mighty waste, 
Of waters fathoms deep, and far 

O'er earth thick dardncss reigned, unchased 
By ray of sun or moon or star, — 

God bade the gloomy deep recede. 

And so young earth rose on His view ! 

Swift at liis word, the waters lied, 

And darkness spread its wings and flew. 

The same strong arm hath put to flight 
Our country's foes, the ruthless band 

That swept in splendid pomp and might 
Across our fair and fertile land. 

The same Almighty hand hath raised 
On these wild plains a structure fair : 

And well may wondering nations gaze 
At aught so marvelous and rare, 

..Thy task is done. The holy shade 
Of calm retirement waits thee now ; 

The lamp of hope relit liath shed 
Its sweet refulgence o'er thy brow. 

Far from the busy haunts of men 
Oh may thy soul each fleeting hour 

Upon the breath of prayer descend 
To him who rules with love and power ! 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 147 



AN EVENING RAMBLE. 



'WAS evening, and the mild autumnal sun, 

With varied hues had tinged the western sky; 
Lovely eve ! contemplation's sweetest hour, 

When memory dwells on days long, long gone by. 

At such an hour, midst nature's wild wood scenes, 
I'd wandered from the cold and heartless throng. 

Who seek the haunts of mirth, while down the stream 
Of life they swift and thoughtless _glidc along. 

A deep and solemn stillness reigned unbroken, 

Save by the rustling of the falling leaf 
Whose faded hues too plainly spoke decay 

All else was sunk in silence, — but 'twas brief; — 

For soon upon the gentle whispering breeze. 

Was borne a soft and melancholy strain, 
E'en now imagination's magic power. 

Recalls these ne'er forgotton words again. 

Farewell, thou bright delusive dream. 
Which o'er my path thy lustre shed. 

Vision of bliss that brightly gleamed, 
Alas ! thou'rt gone, forever fled. 

Alone I roam upon the earth 

Without one friend or kindred tie. 
Far from the spot that gave me birth. 

In a foreign land I sigh. 

Ah ! what is childhood's home to me. 

With all its loved hills and groves, 
Among those haunts of infancy 

The indifferent stranger roves. 

Yet, once a tender mother's smile 
Kindly cheered me on my way ; 



A father's love my cares beguiled, 
But now, alas ! " where are they?" 

Stranger, behold yon silent mound, 

Where waves the rank grass tall, 
There, beneath that hallowed ground, 

Is deposited my all. 

I There, when the pensive twilight throws, 

O'er the earth her deepning gloom, 
The lonely wanderer breathes his woes. 
And bewails his early doom. 

Ah ! one by one my childish joys, 

Soon have fled like " summer friends," 

Who quickly heeding fortune's voice, 
Seek the fleeting bliss she lends. 

Yet, murmur not, poor wearied one. 

For thee, e'en thee, there's rest ; 
Be still, my heart, the grave shall soon 

Shield me from chilling blast. 

And though around my peaceful tomb, 

No lamenting friends appear, 
There the wild rose shall sweetly bloom, 

Unnourished by friendship's tear, 

I listened — but the voice had passed away, 

Those sweet and mournful strains were heard no more 

Like fleeting dreams of childhood's joyous day 
They passed — and all was silent as before. 



Poets and Poetry op Texas. 149 



NETTIE POWER HOUSTON. 



%iS the youngest daughter of Gen. Sam Houston, and holds title I 
j|| to an honorable place among the Texas writers. She was born I 

^ in the State her father made great, and her youthful life I 
was passed among scenes^haracteristically Texan, and the ups I 
and downs of this life ^*6 made up of perpetual variations be- ' 

tween luxury and i^enury, and that- shifty life of expedients ^ 
■which quickens the wits, and out of which perhaps its victims, 
whose disappointment Ave lament so much, get a degree of ex- 
citement, pleasurable as well as painful, which makes them 
much less miserable than we imagine. 

In very early life Miss Nettie began to write and publish her 
poems, and was soon surrounded by a lively group of admiring \ 
friends, of whom it has been said: " They sought their in- \ 
spiration from her pen." Her earliest productions were sur- I 
prises and revelations to the public. 

In 1871, Turnbull Brothers, Baltimore, announced a volume 
of her poems, but from some cause, not known to the public, 
the book has never appeared. In 1878, she was married to 
Prof. W. L, Bringhurst, at that time professor in the Texas 
Military Institute at Austin, and at present (May, 1885) of the 
Agricultural and Mechanical College, at Bryan, Texas. 

Mrs. Bringhurst has long been a great favorite of the people 
of Texas. They have always delighted to honor her, and ev- 
erything that she has written has been received with pride, and 
stored away as a treasure of rare beauty. 

When she published her earlist poems, many were ready to 
give praise and encouragement; butwhenshe published A Gar- 
nered Memory, Little Babies, Hanging up the Stocking, and Love 
Z)rea?/is in quick succession, all were ready to pay homage to 
her genius. 



a 



150 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Her charming little poem — Little Babies — has been copied more 
extensively, perhaps, than anything she has published, and 
ranks among her best poems. 

In the production of this poem the spirit of poetry seems not 
onl}'^ to have seized upon her feelings, but to have absorbed all 
the powers of her intellect; and hence, in the breathing forth 
of her numbers, there is little of the "earth earthly," and 
she sees little babies everywhere. Indeed, from the poetic 
tinge, which colors all of her writings, particularly her earliest 
productions, there can be no doubt that her genius was such 
as would have lead to the highest degree of excellence in any 
department of poetry to which she might have devoted her ex- 
alted intellect. 

The intrinsic merit of her poems, in this volume, will com- 
mend them to every reader capable of appreciating a pure and 
exalted poetic vein. 

Her poem. The Veterans^ Re-Union, is one of pure delight. She 
held these heroes in such veneration, and regarded their great 
and heroic deeds with such admiration, that she was never hap- 
pier than when composing verses to their memory. 

Mrs. Bringhurst inherited her poetic genius from her mother, 
who wrote some exquisite gems of poetry and, whose life and 
poems appear in this volume. The poems of the mother and 
daughter are as different as it is possible for them to be, and 
there appears little "brotherhood of song." With one or two 
exceptions, they are totally unlike in sentiment or imagery, and 
do not impress one as being from minds akin. Those of the 
mother were penned amidst hours of luxuriant ease, and in 
the decline of life. Those of the daughter were composed 
when her heart was buoyant 

"And the bright flush of joy mantled high on her cheek 
While the future look'd blooming and gay." 

She has had her disappointments, as most do; and her strug- 
gles without means to accomplish her literary desires were 



1 



L. 



J. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 151 



bitter, but she has lived through them, and although she writes 
little now that the public ever sees, the fire still burns within 
her, and when the public demands of her her rhyme, she will 
wield her pen to gratify the demand. 

I have selected for tliis volume Mrs. Bringhurst's best known 
poems — A Garnered Memory, Little Babies and The Veterans^ Re- ■ 
Union. There was such a number of good poems to select \ 
from, that the task of selection was rendered very difficult. 
They are very popular, and will have many admirers. 

LITTLE BABIES. 



j^pHERE are babies all about us — 
^1 j Babies fresh, and sweet, and fair, 
^T Made for seeing, loving, kissing, 

Little babies everywhere. 
Who on earth can fail to love them ? 

God's fair sunbeams stolen in. 
Bless the little sinless babies I 

Innocent, though born in sin. 

We can see them all around us, 

In the house and on the street ; 
Watch their rosy, dimpling faces. 

Hear their busy hands and feet. 
Little babies, whose rich garments 

Bear wealth's impress o'er and o'er, 
Little babies — poor men's treasures — 

Rollicking upon the floor. 

Little black-eyed bonny babies. 

Brimming full of fun and glee ; 
Little blue-eyed sunny babies. 

There's no prettier sight to see. 
If my arms were only stronger, 

So the wee ones wouldn't fall, 
I could kiss them by the dozen. 

Little babies, one and all. 



152 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Yes, the world is full of babies, 

Some that just can coo and smile. 
Some tliat dance, and laugh and chatter, 

Briglit and liapi)y all the while. 
Some have learned to think and reason, 

And can speak in baby-talk ; 
Some, Avhose little limbs are stronger, 

Have essayed alone to walk. 

/ 
Little ba1)ies have their trials, 

So tlicy sometimes sob and wail ; 
Telling, if we could divine it, 

Mivny a sad, heart-rending tale. 
'Tis a part of human nature, 

To ask sympathy in woe. 
And with little baby-sorrows, 

Grown folks shouldn't grumble so. 

Heaven's choice blessings are the babies, 

Blessings not denied the poor ; 
For the little wandering. angels 

Steal in at the humblest door. 
Earth is never wholly fallen, 

While these rays from God's own smile 
Say, in silence, something better 

Is behind us all the while. 

There are many little babies 

Who have crossed the river o'er. 
Some whose life-barques were too frail, 

Perished on an earthly shore. 
Little snowy, waxen babies. 

With their tiny hands at rest. 
Little buds, too frail to blossom, 

Save in mansions of the blest. 

Ah, 'tis much we owe to babies, 
For they fill our lives with light, 

Their bright faces and sweet laughter 
Scatter all of sorrow's night. 



n 



Poets and Poetry of Thixas. 



153 



Little hearts, all unsuspecting, 
or the paths our feet have trod. 

In their simple might possessing 
Power to lead us all to God. 



A OAHNEREB MEMORY, 



'HERP] is a l)lessed memory, 

Eml)alnied with my love and tears, 
That, buxied dcej)ly, tewderly, 
Has hallowed my heart for years. 
'Tis a bright, but a sad, sad vision 

That hovers before my gaze, 
Bringing me all of the treasures 
I lost with my (childhood days. 

'Twas a winter evening hazy, 

The cares of the day w(!re done. 
And the troop of merry school girls, 

Came home in the setting sun ; 
My weary feet on the threshold, 

I stored all my books away, 
Tossed oil' my gloves and my bonnet, 

To rest with the d^nng day. 

My mother sat in the twilight. 

Musing and dreaming alone ; 
Her face, in the lire-light shadows, 

With a calm, sweet glory shone. 
I knew of what she was dreaming, 

I had studied her features so, 
That I told by their softened meaning 

When she thought of the long ago. 

I threw back my dark hair's tresses. 
And sitting child-like at her feet, 

Asked my mother to tell me the story 
To her memory treasured and sweet. 



llcr Messed lilue eyes <!:i-(>\v wistful, 

She llioiis'lilol' my futlier now, 
y\iul !i look of deep loving;' and lon}j;in}; 

Crepl over lier lips and her hrow. 

The I'linipses of li,i';hf throuj;h the window 

Strayed lovinj^ly over iier Iniir, 
Tiu^ davli^ht. seeineil yearnin};' to hless her, 

And lin!;(M'ed eareKsintdy there ; 
There iie\'er was hair like my mother's, 

'Twas jet in a seltinj:; of Li,«»ld, 
Like mi(ini!!,hl asleep, in rich masses, 

With day lijj;ht awake on each fold. 

"No wi>nder \\\\ lather so loved you," 

I museil, Idokinu,' up in her face, 
1'\m' motherhood, frci;j,hted with tiial. 

Had not stolen lu>r beauty and graci'; 
Her dr{>HM was th(> de(>post. of mourninjj;, 

And hiM' hands wtMi- so waxtui and whilo 
I lhou}^ht of thi> pure snowy hlosst)m, 

'IMial. open tluMr p(>tals at ni-'Jil. 

Then slu' told me, in tones like low music. 

The story that measured her lift>, 
Her girlhood, its h«>auty, its triumphs, 

Wvr thi> lov(>-erown iuvd nuule Ium- a wift^ — 
And sh(> painted a. {>ieturo so viviii, 

I fancied it dawntMl on my view, 
Of llu> t>V(<ninj;; my lather lirst nu>t her, 

W'htMi the old life was lost in the m>w. 

Slie told how her dross, white and sptitloss, 

And the curls of her dark llowinu; hair, 
How htu" hluc (\vos, lu>r fresh sinn)li' beauty, 

(Miaincil her hi>art in u lifetime of snare. 
She told mo the scene of betrothal. 

In a beauteous garden of lU)wers, 
Of the lovely, ciu-hanttMl Hay Oity, 

\\'her(> glid{>d In-r girlhood's bright hours. 

Then she pictur»Ml the evo of her bridal, 
\\'lu>n, le.'iving behind every li(\ 



I'oKTM AND ToKTIfV uK Tl'.XAB. 



She folliiwcil licr 1ic;ii(/m clioMi'll rulci', 

'I'o dwell 'iicmUi u I'ar »lis(:inr .sky. 
'I'liiii my iiiothcr'M MWccI, Ciicc kiiKllcd pioudly, 

And she said, in u Inw, caiiHsl v(»ic(!, 
" W'licn I iiian'ic(l your I'ldlicr, my da,iij.^licr, 

()!' Ilic wimlc wiultl, I wcddctl iny clioicc." 

Tlic fliadows (if nijdd. were aniund lis, 

'IMic story had closed witli Uie da,y, 
r.iit llic wtu'ds of my molluif still lin}';ert'<l 

lake llie eelio wlieri soiigs (lio Jiwa.y. 
\a)\1<^ I dieiiliied o'er |li(! woi'ds rtlio liiul spoken, 

(If llie li>ve :ind Hie |(rid(^ in lier voiec, 
Anil I :;iid lo myself, " hlarfli were; lieav(!ii, 

If each woman li;id miinied her (thoico." 



77/ A' VliJTliJ HANS' UK UNION. 

iM;iti— MAKi.'ii :i--ii'.;r). 



r.ANl) of [)aLri<)ts tried and true, 
Whoso l()(dcH uri! tiirnin;^; trray, 
'*^;^ Aiuonji; thcso old historie sccnoH, 
(jiiitlmr tluiniselves today. 

My fancy stea.ls inio their midsl, 
With step so IiusIkmI and low; 

J K(M!ni to hear their Hpeakinj^ h( art-t, 
l*.esid(! the A lamo. 

The tid(! of y(!ii,rH Hvvcops hy iinlblt, 
With all life's cnrc! ami pain ; 

Texas Ixdon^^s to Mcxicio 
And they ar(; hoys again. 

Tin; proud d(!Hirc, tin; drciauiH of youth. 
Stir all their veins once; rnoic, 

As memory i)roudly points her hand 
'j'o valiant (hicds ol yore. 



Again tliey H(>o a iui.i;lily host,, 
li'roin out ilu! distance loom ; 

'Tis Santa Anna and liis men, 
And noarcM- still tliey conio. 

Tli(\v watch the sun still lower sink, 

Tlie field all dy^'d in blood; 
They phr.it their proud, victorious feet 

Where late their foes had stood. 

Texas is now a JMolher State, 
Her sons ar(^ statcsnicn, too ; 

No fields are half so fair as hers, 
No skies are half so blue." 

Yet still 1 see a softened shade 

lI|)on their features spread, 
They lower their voices, for they fell 

''I'is hallowed ground they tread. 

They pause above the sleeping dead, 

Our heroes lying low ; 
The men who fouglit and bled und died, 

To save the Alamo. 

1 (\o not call one deathless name, 

Of all that gallant band ; 
Each one a hero proudly died. 

Fearless in heart and hand. 

I feel thi'ir jiroud fire in my veins, 
My heart throbs fierce and high ! 

JMy ])idses thrill like those of men. 
Who do not fear to die. 

I learn to yearn as they have yearned. 
For dreams that could not last; 

I almost feel as thoy have felt. 
The glory of the Past. 

That was a day worth living for, boys ! 
'Twas April — let me seo — 



fcmJi^-M 



Poets and Poktuy of Texa5?. 157 



Yos, 'twas iho fj;lorious tu'cnty-Cirst 
That made our country IVec ! 

V/o fou^lit hall'-letl, wo louglit lialf-clad ; 

But oh ! wo fought like uion ! 
And, oomrach'S, it was gi'and 

To be a soldier then ! 

The t^an Jacinto river told 

The Htory to the sea, 
And Europe, listeuing from afar, 

Proclaimed young Texas free. 

And over sea and over landj 

Iler beauty (■!lu")n(! nfai', 
And lords and prineos came (o view 

The yoiiug Uepublie's star. 

And now, it is so long ago ! 

And after all our stars, 
The star we })laced upon her brow, 

Is one of many stars. 

Our boys themsdvos are bearded men, 

The dream all fades away, 
And yet })ut yestei'day it seems 

We were as young as they. 

Texas, my own, my native tState, 
Would I could see thee now 

In all thy pristine l)f'auty bright — 
The Lone Ktar on thy l)row 1 

A l)and of heroes, on whose brows 
Time's touch has turned to snow — 

God bless them all ! — arc met to-day 
Beside the Aljuno, 



JAMES H. HUTCHINS. 



MONG the number of those whose Muse has been silent 
except when touched by grief or joy, or moved by some 
special occasion, is Mr. Hutchins. "Though gifted for 
musical utterance by nature and culture, the allurements of 
domestic life too fully met the wants of his nature, happy be- 
yond the need of poetic utterance." 

Mr. Hutchins was born in Newbern, North Carolina, in Sep- 
tember of 1813. He was educated in the University of that 
State, graduating in 1835. He has been a citizen of Texas since 
1849, and most of that time his home has been in Austin. From 
1860 to 1865, he held the position of Calculator in the General 
Land Office, and from 1874 to tbe present time (1885) he has 
held the same official connection with that department. During 
all this time he never forsook the wooing of the Muses, and has 
given to the world, now and then, through the medium of news- 
papers, some of the fruits of his wooing. 

Mr. Hutchins' longest poems, My Natioe Toivn, occupies 
nearly a thousand lines. It is his most ambitions attempt and 
is musical throughout. He introduces it to the reader by these 
lines : — 

No time suffices to efface, 

The hallowed memories of the place, 

That gave us birth — where e'er we roam, 

How far so e'r from childhoods' home, 

And be our fortune what it will. 

All liright with joy or dark with ill, 

And though the years be counted o'er, — 

Long years of absence by the score, 

While memory lives, it haunts the sod, 

By our own feet it childhood trod, — 

While throbs the heart in yearning tends, 

To childhood's scenes and childhood's friends — 



^ 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 159 



One of Mr. Hutchins' best poems, and one among his most 
highly prized, he calls A Dirge. This poem was composed 
February 1, 18G2. On that day the remains of Hon. John 
Hemphill, Confederate States Senator, and those of Gen. Hugh 
McLeod, of the Confederate army, having been brought from 
Richmond, Va., Avere interred at Austin, Texas. It was a cold, 
wet day, and a light sleet was falling at the time of the inter- 
ment. A short time previous, the remains of Col. Benj. F. 
Terry and those of Lieut. Col. T. S. Lubbock (both late of the 
Terry Rangers) had been transferred from Kentucky and in- 
terred at Houston. I quote the poem complete: — 



'OLL! toll! toll! 
Let solemn chimes and slow, 
Tell out a Nation's woe ; 

A heroe's head 
In death lies low; 
Ring out the trembling throes, 
A land's full heart o'erflov/s 

As winds the ]5all, 

To that dread hall 
Where all earth's dead repose. — 

A patriot soul has fled — 
The noble Terry's dead, 

That gallant chief 

To glory wed — 
For him the trump in vain, 
Shall wake its martial strain, 

And warlike steed 

No more he'll need, 
Nor warrior blade, or train — 



When sank the hero low, 

He nobly wooed the blow, 

And proudly fell, 

Charging the foe. 

Now shall he sweetly rest, 



160 



PoET3 AND Poetry of Texas. 



By every patriot blest, 

And age to age 

Shall storied page 
His valor higli attest. 

Toll! toll! toll! 
Again, ye luounil'iil bolls, 
'J'oll out your solemn knells, 

And eelioos wake 

In far otr dells: 
Sad notes ye well niny i)o\n-. 
Another warrior o'er — 

Jirave liUhbook sleeps — 

His (.-ouiitry weeps. 
That he sh:\ll wake no move. 

No more iiis Hashing <\ve, 
Shall I'oeman ))rou<l defy — 

His sword no more 

He'll wave on high, 
And dasliing on, strike home, 
Where decjj-moutlied eannons hoom, 

And band willi hand, 

Close hand to hand — 
To ('ond)at gives (^uick doom — 

To him is hushed Avar's Mast — 
He sheathes his sv/ord at last. 

And yi(dds to death, 

A life well passed — 
Green shall his memory he. 
While Texan hearts are tree. 

Or warrior souls, 

On deathless rolls, 
Win tamo's I'ternitv. 



Toll! toll! toll! 
Once more ye griei'-bells moan, 
And wailful sounds intone, 

O'er noble t'wain, 

Forever gone ! — 
Hemphill, the statesman just, 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. IGl 



And brave McLeod are dust — 

Lo ! both arc here, 

On lionored bier, 
Each snatched from k)rty trust — 

With muflled drums wc go, 
And hearts ojjpresscd with woe, 

Hearing thcni on, 

To home so low. 
As if it mourned tbcar doom. 
The day is draped in gloom, 

When statcsnian grave, 

And worrior brave, 
Together seek a tomb. 

One fell with war steed near, 
And one in Senate's si>hero, 

Yet each alike, 

To country dear. 
Both patriots, tried and true, 
Peers of the noble few. 

Whose fame is bright 

Witb golden light 
The circling ag(;s tbrough. 

Mr. Ilutchins has reared a large and prosperous family, lie 
has lived to see his sons occuj)y j)rominent positions in life's 
station. Jlis married life lias extended over forty years, and 
peace and plenty have always blessed tbat union. One of his 
happiest poems was addressed to bis wife on completing the 
fortieth year of their married life. 

Lucre^s Dying Advice to His Son is a fair specimen of Mr. 
Hutcliin's best poems. I give it preference : — 

;!^"^HE death-dew, son, is on my brow, 
*^ij ) And fast life's tide is ebbing now, 

J Yet e're I go, come, bend you near 
That my last whispers you may hear. 

Some pious souls will prate of sin, 
If you attempt great wealth to win ; 



mmi mmti 




Don't mind them, boy, but money make, 

In spite of heads that at yon shake. 

For don't tlie wise man bid you turn, 

And from tlie ant a lesson learn? 

And from the bee, too, may'nt you draw, 

That hoarding is great Nature's law ? 

But these, my son, the bee and ant. 

They store their wealth 'gaiiist winter's want, 

Whibt need of thine is as thy time : 

'Twill serve thee well through all thy prime. 

Through middle age and life's decline : 

'Twill buy thee corn and oil and wine. 

'Twill be to thee, far more than brother, 

Than father, sister, wife or mother. 

Have this for friend, thou'lt need no other ; 

Then money get, my son, my son. 

For all else good's by money won. 

Be honest, too, my son, you will 
But jutlge yourself what's honest, still. 
Let your own conscience be your light. 
Nor heed what squeamish folks call right. 
What's right and wrong you ought to know. 
Then why to others need you go? 
They can but say, 'tis right to trade. 
When twice or thrice is back repaid. 
And wrong to vend at price so low, 
That handsome profit you forego. 
Then buy you low, sell high, nor spend 
One cent that serves no useful end. 
Sound maxims these of honest thrift — 
All others to a poor-house drift. 

Give urgent beggars such robulF, 
One call on you, they'll deem enough; 
For, taxes you must pay, be sure. 
To taxes then should look the poor. 
And things got up for " public good," 
Don't waste your money on that brood, 
But, now and then, 'twill do to spare, 
A txifle to a ball or fair ; 
For, crowds, you know, do these attend. 
And fools in town their money spend, 



So, when there's chance to be repaid, 
The giving card may well be played. 

You'll go to church on Sunday, too, 
When you have nothing else to do, 
'Tis quite becoming— looks so well, 
It makes a man respectable ; 
And of the many churches choose, 
(But never one that rents its pews) 
And put your name upon its roll ; 
You'll find it cheapest on the whole. 
For, beggars all, they'll crowd your door. 
To build them houses— feed their poor ; 
To print them Bibles, tracts, and send 
The gospel to the wide world's end. 
But if of all, you've chosen one. 
The rest are at your mercy, son. 
For you can quote them, when they come, 
That " charity begins at home," — 
Can tell them how your flock's your care, 
And needs far more than you can spare, 
And till its wants are all supplied, 
All other calls must be denied. 
Thus of all churches not your own. 
The beggar claims, you can disown. 
But when your own goes on a raid, 
Though you bemoan dull times and trade, 
As 'twould seem mean just then to bluff. 
Throw in a dollar— 'tis enough — 
And watch you then to turn a Jack, 
That quick again shall win it back. 

This plan's a good one, son, I know, 

Forty years I've. found it so ; 

Though all that time, with name enrolled, 

A church has had me in its fold. 

And thanks to— well, to my good sense, 

I'm this near heaven at small expense. 

Now try the plan, my son, I've tried, 

And save your money and " — he died ! 



164 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



ROBERT JOSSELYN. 




R. JOSSELYN was born in Massachusetts, 1810, edu- 
cated in Vermont, and admitted to the bar at Winchester, 
Virginia, 1831. He then immigrated to Mississippi, 
where he practiced law, served in the LegisLature, Avas District 
Attorney, and for a while engaged in journalism. lie entered 
the Mexican War as private in First Mississippi Rifles, with 
Col. JcfTcrson Davis, but was appointed Captain and Commis- 
sary by President Polk. At the cx})iraiion of term of service 
ho resigned; was State Commissioner of Mississippi 1850 to 
1858 ; and in Treasury Department, Washington, ISGO, but re- 
signed Avhen Mississipi)i seceded. President Davis a])pointed 
him his private secretary at Montgomery, but he resigned 
after one year's service, on account of ill health, and was made 
Secretary of Arizona Territory, as organized under the Confed- 
eracy. Since the war he has resided in Texas, at Austin. His 
published works are The Faded Flower and Other Poems, Boston, 
1848 ; A Satire on the Times, St. Louis, 1875; and T'he Coijucttc, 
a drama in five acts, Austin, 1878. lie is anther of many fugi- 
tive poems, two of which — The Girl with a Calico Dress and The 
Youn(j Widow — hii\o kept their places in the newspapers for 
more than twenty-five years, though rarely credited to the 
author. 

For some years Mr. Josselyn was connected with the Democratic 
Statesman, Austin. In 1878 he started a daily i)aper at Austin, 
but it fell through after a short life. His writings are generally 
upon questions of the day, and they are characterized by prac- 
tical good sense ; a compliment rarely to be paid to a man of so 
varied attainments. 

January, 1883, when Hon. John Ireland was installed Gov- 



ernor of Texas, Mr. .lossolyn :i(',cc[)tc(l u (;lorkslii|) in i\\r, ex- 
ecutive ollice, wlierelu! remained until l)is (Icatli, which occurred 
of i)heunionia in 18S4. He lived a bachelor— having never 
been married. 

Mr. Josselyn had many iubnirers who delighted to call him 
the "(loldsmith of Tc^xas." 

The La><L Tear I Shed is perhaps his best sliort poem, and 
richly d(>servcs a phici; here, and a general recognition from the 
])ubrK;. 1 l:ik(! it from VVra.s Scrap Hook. The Salirc on Ihc 
!/'i7ncs was originally published in the Soutliern Jieviciv edited 
by Dr. A. T. liledsoe. 1 regret its lenglh will prin'cnt my in- 
cluding it in this volume as a (•omi)leled whole. Tlu; reader 
will be coini)elled to accci)t detached parts. It is lioped, how- 
ever, tliat these extracts will load tlx^ reader to seiik the i)ocm 
and study well its many unsavory truths. 



SATIRE ON TlIK TIMI'JH. 



Aff ONI*] are the men of nol)le heart and brain 
'i[i|])'l'he Great llepublic'H founders. And in vain 



Wc scan the spreading Empire to behold 
A single statesman of the days of old — 
A single patriot, whose only aim 
His country's wcllaie and an hon(;st fanx;. 
Corrui)lion reigns. Assuraiu^e stalks abroad, 
Defiant of tlu; laws of man and (Jod. 
From high to low— if high and low there; be. 
Where scoundrels differ otdy in degree — 
The deadly taint ])r(;vails; the putrid mass 
But struggles, each the other to surpass 
In crime and wantonness, till nature writhes 
With pain, and wond(M-s if aught good survives 
If Virtue lives, she shuns the public gaze, 
In fear and sorrow spends the weary days, 
With few to sympathize, and none to praise. 



God help tlx' land, so reprobate, so curst; 

When will His thunders on this Sodom burst? 

There was a time — how grand the scene appears 

To muse historic, smiling through her tears ! — 

When heroes sti;ug"gled for a place and name 

Among the nations; and when glory came, 

World-circling and undying; wdien arose 

'i'lic young Republic, 'midst the i)angs and throes 

Of revolution, and the dormant right 

Of Government by numbers, not by might, 

Of largest liberty conjoined with law, 

Asserted, struck earth's tyranny with awe. 

Tiie rlglit maintained b}' blootly sacriiice, 

And freedom won, the pearl above all i>rice, 

V\'\\h reasonings, calm and strong, and high debates, 

Was formed the love-bound union of the States^ — 

Of sovereign States, co-equal and intact. 

While Heaven's choicest blessings crowned the act. 

Then commerce spread her snowy wings ai'ar, 
And kings and subjects honored stripe and star. 
The husbandman received a- full return 
For toil and care ; what industry could earn, 
B}^ sturdy sinews and by sweat of brow. 
Went not to pamper lazy thieves, as now. 
No endless taxes ground the worthy ])Oor 
Till ghastly famine haunted at the door ; 
Within was plenty, and around the board 
Daily the happy family adored 
Their Maker, thankful for the blessings given, 
And luid a f(^retaste of their future heaven, 
lieligion llourished, jture and undefiled. 
As taught by Virgin Mary's God-full Child. 
Devoted pastors guarded well their Hocks, 
Nor smeared with dirty politics their frocks ; 
The mvstery of godliness their pride. 
And preaching Christ, the Savior, crucified. 
Then marriage was esteemed a sacred tie, 
And vows of love were not a honeyed lie ; 
The seal of fond atiection was for life, 
And death alone divorced the man and wife, 



J_ 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



167 



Obedient children, stout and fair to view, 

In goodly numbers round their parents grew— 

Sure indication oC a thriving fState, 

As lessening oli'spring show the coming fate. 

Helf-government was real— otiice sought 

The man, not man the oliice, as it ought. 



Sickened, we turn from rulers to the ruled— 

J.ike mass and masters, save the crushed and fooled. 

As base and wicked, else why not assert 

Their manhood, and rise upward from the dirt 

And filth of their condition? Why not be 

Freemen in fact as well as theory? 

Grovelling, debauched, d(;praved, they only think 

Of money-making and the dollar's clink ; 

Wealth, by all means of fraudulent deceit 

In trade and fabrics, glorying in the cheat ; 

Poison in liquors, shoddy everywhere, 

Swindling in all we drink and eat and wear ; 

Huge combinations to enhance the price 

Of stocks and bonds, by every low device 

To cunning knov/n, or to depress the same 

For purchase by the shufflers in the game. 

To break jj sacred trust, to bankrui)t friends, 

To use a public fund for private ends, 

Defraud the revenue, or rob a bank, 

Gives to the perpetrator fame and rank. 



THE LAST TEAR I SHED. 



C^lIE last tear I shed was the warm one that fell 
%| lAs I kissed thee, dear mother, and bade thee farewell ; 
^x When I saw the deep anguish impressed on thy face, 
And felt for the last time a mother's embrace. 
And heard thy choked accent, most frantic and wild, 
"God bless ihee forever ! God bless thee, my child !" 



168 Pop:ts and Poetry of Texas. 



I thought of my boyhood, thy kindness to me, 
When, youngest and dearest, I sut on thy knee; 
Thy kive to me ever so fondly expressed, 
As I grew uj) to manhood, unconscious how blest ; 
Thy praises when right, and thy chidings when wrong, 
While wayward with passion, unheeding and strong, 

I thought of thy counsels, unheeded or spurned, 

As mirth had enlivened, or anger had burned, 

And now, when by sickness I lay. 

Thou didst nurse me and sootlie me, by night and by day, 

How much I had been both thy sorrow and joy, 

And my feelings o'erllowed, and I wept like a boy. 

Years, years of endurance have vanished, and now — 
There is pain in my heart, there is care on my brow, 
The visions of fancy and hope are all gone, 
And cheerless I travel life's pathway alone. 
Alone? Aye, alone ! though some kind ones there be, 
There is none here to love me — to love me like thee. 

My mother, dear mother, cold-hearted they deem 
Thy oflfspring, but, oh, I am not what I seem; 
Though calmly and tearless all changes I bear. 
Could you look in my bosom, the feeling is there, 
And now, sad and lonely, as memory recatls 
Thy blessing at parting, again the tear falls. 



MY GIRL WITH A CALICO DRESS. 



FIG for your U[)per-ten girls. 
With their velvets, and satin, and laces, 
'Their diamonds, and rabies, and pearls, 
And millinery figures and faces ; 
They may shine at a party or ball, 

Emblazoned with half they possess. 
But give me, instead of them all. 
My girl with the calico dress. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



169 



She's as plump as a partridge, and fair 

As a rose in its earliest bloom ; 
Her teeth will with ivor}' compare, 

And her breath with the clover perfume ; 
Her step is as free and as light 

As the fawn's, when the hunter hard press ; 
And her eye is as soft and as bright — 

My girl with the calico dress. 

Your dandies and foplings may jeer 

At her modest and simple attire ; 
But the charms she permits to appear 

Would set a whole iceburg on fire : 
She can dance, but she never allows 

The hugging, the squeeze and caress, 
She is saving all these for her spouse — 

My girl with the calico dress. 

She is cheerful, warm-hearted, and true, 

And kind to her father and mother : 
She studies how much she can do 

For her sweet little sister and brother. 
If you want a companion for life, 

To comfort, enliven, anrl bless, 
She is just the right sort for a wife — 

My girl with a calico dress. 



THE YOUNG WIDOW. 



HE is modest but not bashful, 

Free and easy but not bold, 
Like an apple, ripe and mellow, 
Not too young and not too old. 
Half inviting, half repulsing, 

Now advancing, and now shy; — 
There is mischief in her dimple — 
There is danger in her e^e. 



13 



170 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



She has studied human nature, 

She is schooled in all her arts, 
She has taken her diploma 

As the INIistress of all Hearts. 
She can tell the very moment 

When to sigh, and when to smile — 
Oh, a maid is often charming, 

But a widow all the while ! 

Are you sad ? How very serious 

Will her smiling face become. 
Are you angry ? She is wretched. 

Drooping, sighing, tearful, dumb. 
Are you mirthful ? How her laughter, 

Silver-sounding, will ring out : — 
She can love, and catch, and play you, 

As the angler does the trout. 

Ye old bachelors of forty ! 

Who have grown so bald and wise, 
Young Americans of twenty ! 

With the love-look in your eyes : — 
You may practice all the lessons 

Taught by Cupid since the fall, 
But I know a little widow 

Who can win and fool you all. 



°^=0§^ 



Poets and Poetry of Tkxas. 171 



HUGH KERR. 



>:^^HE earliest literary production of the State is a little vol- 
*||y lime called Kerr's Poem on Texas. It is occupied mainly 

* with a description of the battles, rivers, lakes, streams 
and animals of the country. 

Mr. Kerr came to Texas in 1832, and was one of the great 
lights of the early colonial settlements in Texas. He wrote and 
published the first book of poems ever produced in the State. 
It bears date of 1838, and is among the very earliest works on 
Texas. In this work, the author displays want of literary skill; 
yet as a rhyming chronicler, he has accomplished his work with 
marked success. 

Mr. Kerr was a native of Ireland, but came to America about 
the year 1795. He died in Washington county, Texas, in 1843. 
He was a friend to Texas in her earliest struggles for freedom, 
and aided the Revolution in various ways— with the pen and 
financial means, and by composing patriotic songs and setting 
them to music. 

His book embraces twenty-four shapters. I give the title com- 
plete of this unique little volume : "A Poetical Description of 
Texas, and Narrative of Many Interesting Events in that Coun- 
try, Embracing a Period of Several Years, Interspersed with 
Moral and Political Impressions ; Also an Appeal to those who 
Oppose the Union of Texas with the United States, and the 
Anticipation of that Event. To which is Added The Texas 
Heroes, Nos. 1 and 2; by Hugh Kerr. New York: Published 
for the Author, 1838." 

As a work of curious worth, this little book is prized by the 
old Texans who knew Kerr and the troublous scenes which he 
describes. It is one of the curiosities of literature of which 



Disnu;!! Iuih inudo no mention, but oni; iliut will be souf^lil and 
road by all wbo enjoy tlic Htranjfi.' and jXH'uliar in pocdic fields. 
Illnstialivt; of tlie descriptivi; contents ol" tbc book, J (juote one 
atanza, IVoni book nineteeiitb: — 

"(lonzalcis and Victloria 

Arc! towns upon tbo (Juadalupe ; 

Tbe (ii'st is distant IVoni tbo hay, 
Tbe latt(;r, some thirty miles up." 

Section nine is (h'voted to l*'annin at (loliad, and Travis and 
Crocket at the Alamo. (Jf the latter see his rbyme : — 



4^ |i|.r'R()M Tinncsseo, brave Crocket came ; 
^j / 'J'lie causes of Texas In; espoused ; 
^^ i At Alamo enrolled his name, , 
ICaeh latent spark of vij!;or rous'd >-^ 

lleretotbre, ho was known hy fame, 
A nottul liunter — a statesman too; 

The friend of Texas, wo i)roelaim, 
A valiant, active hero true. 

lUit ah I wo note bia fat(! with pain. 
For Texas has his valoiir priz'd — 

Surrounded by a lieap of slain, 
Jlis body there is ieet)gniz'd. 

His brave eompanions shar'd his fatc^ ; 

They blend in death and share his fame : 
Their valour some will emulate. 

Though we cannot cacb j)erson name." 

These lines are as crude as Whitakcr's Good News from Vir- 
ginia, 1G13. I cannot conceive of anytliing more crude. 
This is.bctter : — 

* To arms 1 to arms ! the Texans cry, 
We nuist repel the savag(! Ibc ; 
We march to comiuor, or to die, 
JBencath the walls of Alamo, j 



I close my sketch of Mr. Kerr by a quotation from Part 
Eighteenth : 

Ah ALVESTON Island long and low, 
i^Jifjl But rising in prosperity ; 

r Small vessels there may safely go, 
Find harbor and security. 

The bay from there to Anuauc, 

A wide extensive lake would seem ; 

With creeks and bayous tending back, 
Where hnny tribes disporting teem. 

Near Anuauc, in winter tim'c, 

Aquatic birds of various sorts, 
From northern to this sunny clime, 

In myriads do there resort. 

The brant and goose do most abound, 
In plumage white the brants appear ; 

For miles in length and all around, 
Flock after flock come squalling there. 

— So vast their number on the shore, 
That many persons come to kill ; 
Preserving feathers — ample store, 
With which at home their beds to fill. 



174 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MIRABEAU B. LAMAR 



2f N writing of Statesmen distinguished in literature, Mr. JNIa- 
^|_ caulay said : " The literary men of a State form its most 
^ valuable possession. They are its greatest pride, and have 
the best claims to remembrance. Without them, literature has 
no hold and commands no respects. Without them, the literary 
history of a State has nothing that inspives, nothing that kin- 
kles the mind with an emulating glow. We should honor 
them by gathering fragments of their lives and labors, and hand 
them down to succeeding generations." 

Among the great men of our noble State, the subject of tliis 
biographical sketch claims an honorable place. He was great 
in the extent of liis capacity, in the.vastness of his literary at- 
tainments, in his patriotic usefulness, in his elevation and 
purity of character, and the moral feelings that guided and di- 
rected his whole life. It is well to speak of the many virtues 
of so great and so good a man. He deserves more than a pass- 
ing notice, and should be honored by the whole State for the 
noble eflbrts of his life, for its freedom and prosperity. 

Mirabeau B. Lamar was born in Macon, Ga.,in the year 1702, 
and died in 1859. He came to Texas in 1836, about two weeks 
before the battle of San Jacinto. He served with distinction in 
the Texas Revolution, and afterwards in the Mexican war. In 
1836 he was appointed Major-General of the army of the young 
Republic. Every one of the army appeared to estimate Mr. 
Lamar higlily, but was disposed to reject him as Commander- 
in-Chief on the ground that the Cabinet had no right to super- 
sede Gen. Sam Houston. The disposition to object to Mr. La- 
mar taking command was known, and a committee was ap- 
pointed to draft resolutions to present to him, requesting that 




MIRABEAU B. LAMAR. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 17" 



r 



he should not act in the official capacity of Major-General until 
the subject could be more maturely considered by the officers of 
the army. Gen. Lamar determined to lay the subject of his re- 
ception before the whole army and take their vote. At his re- 
quest the army was formed in line. Gen. Rusk introduced him 
to the army, after which he made a short speech, recounting his 
deeds in a glowing manner. He said that be had been made 
Commander-in-Chief unsolicited by himself; that he was not 
ambitious of the office ; that the voice of man made generals, 
but God made heroes, and that if his appointment was not ac- 
ceptable to the army, he would cheerfully go into the rank and 
fight l)y their side, and lead the vaiT to victory or to death, 
guided by the flash of the sword. His speech was followed by 
Generals Green and Rusk. Vote was taken and Lamar was re- 
jected. The army was in general agitation, and it was with 
great difficidty that the friends of Lamar were reconciled. 

October 22nd, 1836, Gen. Houston was installed first Consti- 
tutional President and Mr. Lamar Vice-President. In 1838, 
Lamar and Grayson were the candidates brought forward by 
their respective friends for President of the young Republic. 
A few days before the election. Col. Grayson put an end to his 
life at Bean's Station, Tennessee. Mr. Lamar was elected 
President without opposition. 

Mr. Lamar proved not to have so fine executive abilities as 
Houston, though the government was put on a high road to 
prosperity. He was not the slave of party, but showed himself 
manly independent on more than one occasion. Col. DeMorse 
says of him : "Of Mirabeau B. Lamar, another of our heroes, 
it is proper to say that in conduct, in manner, in presence, he 
illustrated the courtly chivalry of Sir Philip Sidney, with a 
similar poetic temperament, and more mental ability. His gal- 
lantry and modesty enforced the warmest eulogiums from Rusk 
and Houston, and by general acclamation of the army, to 
which he was a new-comer, he won his spurs in one day— the 
action of the 20th— and on the final day, the 21st, by common 



I7(i Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



approval, was placed in command of the cavalry. Coming to 
Texas a Knight Paladin, offering his sword and person in the 
cause of liberty, as Lafayette did, by a vote almost unanimous, 
he rose to the highest position in the country," 

Mr, DeMorse pays Gen, Lamar a worthy compliment wlicn 
he says that he had more mental ability than Sir Sidney — a 
man who could be a gallant and graceful courtier without du- 
plicity, a warrior and a hero without loss of rank in the courts 
of the Muses; one who was successful in almost every Avalk of 
honora])le enterprise, without incurring the cnv}'- or reproach of 
his competitors; one in whom the most ordinar}' affairs of life 
became invested, in the eyes of his countrymen, with some pe- 
culiar fitness; whose very sentiment was n melody, whose every 
act was rhythmical, whose whole life, indeed, was one con- 
tinued poem. 

Mr. Lamar possessed fine literary attainments and devoted 
much of his time to the study of the great poets. lie liad a 
well trained power to discover excellence, and his mind was 
enriched V>y constant reading and hard study. He had a faculty 
of perceiving beauty in a variety of objects and forms in lit- 
erature and scenery. He felt the unity of beauty and love 
amid all nature. He publislied Verses Memorial in 1857, which 
contains many beautiful tributes. His longest })oem, SaJl]i Ni/Jey, 
is full of wit and satire. Hobbs called him the "Texas 
Rhymer.'' Weaver called him the "Bard," and when he died, 
inscribed to his memory the following estimable poem which 
will live as long as our literature endures : — 



HK patriot, the bard, and the warrior is dead ! 
Mourn Texas, one more of your Nobles has lied ! 
And the wail of the weep(n*s comes up from afar — 
In the bosom of Texas lies gallant Lamar I 

The shield of the soldier is broken in twain ! 
What freeman today will his sorrows restrain 



■i- 




For him who left hoiiK! and its kindred delights, 
To battle with stranc^crs, and bleed for their rights ? 



I 



Rusk, Burleson, Henderson, Hunt, and again 
Death has severed a link in the bright Hero-ehain; 
But Time the relentless, or Death cannot mar 
The brilliant escutcheon of radiant Lamar ! 

Oh ! lives there a Texan, so cold and so mean, 
Who, today, will remember poor partisan spleen? 
And not mourn o'er the chieftain, the foremost in war, 
The nol)lc, chivalric, and gifted Lamar? 

Bathe his tomb with the tears of alSIation's distress ! 
Tjct the votaries of Freedom his memory bless ! 
[jet sweet scented flowers deck the turf on his breast ! 
In the grave of a hero — " rest, warrior, rest !" 

Come, matrons and maidens of Texas, com 
And drop for your fearless defender a tear ; 
But drape not our Star — no, still let it wa\ 
As in battle, all bright o'er the soldier's fre 



jf Texas, come near, 



ve 



fresh grave 



Plant there the magnolia, the laurel and pine, 

For no "cypress, nor yew " shoidd droop over his shrine, 

But our own evergreen should unfadingly wave 

O'er the last resting place of a Texan so brave ! 

When the Lone Star was shrouded in Tyranny's dusk, 
' Twas the genius of Houston, Lamar and Rusk 
That marshaled and led the victorious band, 
Who drove the invader afar from our land! 

Bring fresh immortelles and the red Texas plume, 
And twine them in garlands to strew o'er his tomb ! 
Oh ! light lies the green prairie sod on his breast, 
In th<; Patriot's grave let the warrior rest ! 

Mrs. Lamar is now residing in Richmond, Texas, and it is 
said that she will soon have a second edition of Verses Memorial 
issued. Any person wishing to see the various workings of a 




178 Poets and Poetry. of Texas. 



man's mind while burdened with office of State, "will do well to 
read Mr. Lamar's poems — filled with fire and patriotism. Mr. 
Lamar was an ardent lover, an affectionate husband, and a 
Christian patriot. 

Mr. Lamar's poem, The Daughter ofMendoza, holds a very high 
place. It is exceedingly musical in its flow, and for beauty of 
conception and perfect execution, it has seldom been excelled. 
President John Tyler said of this poem: " ZVic Daughter of 
Mendoza enshrines forever the memory of its author in its mel- 
ody." I give the poem : — 

LEND to me, sweet nightingale, 

Your music by the fountain ; 
And lend to me your cadences, 
river of the mountains. 
That I may sing my gay brunette, 
A diamond spark in coral set. 
Gem for a prince's coronet — 
The Daughter of Mendoza. 

How brilliant is the morning star. 

The evening star how tender ; 
The light of both is in her eyes — 

Their softness and their splendor. 
But lashes bright that shade their light, 
They were too dazzling for the sight ; 
And when she shuts them, all is night, 

The Daughter of Mendoza. 

0, ever bright and beauteous one. 

Bewildering and beguiling, 
The lute is in thy silvery tone. 

The rainbow in thy smiling. 
And thine is, too, o'er hill and dell, 
The bounding of the young gazelle, 
The arrow's flight and ocean's swell — 

Sweet Daughter of Mendoza. 

What though, perchance, we meet no more, 
Though our paths of life should sever, 



•wM i.-«arMiBai«i 



mmmmmmmm 



eaB<iK«ue«anHra 



Poets and Puetry of Texas. 



179 



Thy form will float like emerald light 

Before my vision ever. 
For who can see, and then forget 
The glories of my gay brunette ? 
Thou art too fair a star to set, 

Fair Daughter of Mendoza. 



GIVE TO THE POET HIS WELL-EARNED 

PRALSE. 



Inscribed to General E. B. Nichols, Galveston. 

IVE to the poet his well-earned praise, 
I And the songs of his love, preserve them ; 
Encircled his brows with fadeless bays 
The children of genius deserve them; 
But never to me such praises breathe, 
To the minstrel-feeling a stranger — 
I only sigh for the laurel-wreath 
That a patriot wins in Danger. 

Speed, speed the day when to war I hie ! 

The fame of the held is inviting ; 
Before my sword shall the focman liy, 

Or fall in the flash of its lightning. 
Away with song, and away with charms ! — 

Insulted Freedom's proud avenger, 
I bear no love but the love of arms. 

And the pride that I was in Danger. 

When shall I meet the audacious foe. 

Face to face where the flags are flying ? — 
I long to thin them, "two at a blow," 

And ride o'er the dead and the dying ! 
My sorrel steed shall his fetlocks stain 

In the brain of the hostile stranger ; 
With an iron heel he spurns the plain, 

And he breathes full and free in Danger. 



180 



Poets and Poetry ok Texas, 



When victory brings tlio warrior rest, 

liicli ilie rewards of iiiurlial dut}' — 
The tlianks of a land witli freedom blest, 

And the smiles of its high-born beauty. 
Does victory fall ? — enough forme, 

That I fall not to fame a stranger ; 
His nan)e shall roll with eternity 

Who finds the foremost grave in Dancikr. 



GlilE VE NOT FOR ME. 



riiHCrilxtd to my Hl:At(^r, Mth. Amnliii Hn)Klll^ floorfliii. 

C^ri]<]R]^] is a sorrow in my heart 
<^f.i|; The world may never know — 

T A ])ang that never will depart. 

Till death shall lay me h)W ; 
Yet light and cheerful still I seem — 

No higns of sorrow see ; 
I wear to all a cliccrful mien, 

That none may Outkvk for Me. 

My sud'rings soon, I know must end, 

For life is on its ebb ; 
The autumn leav(!S that first descend 

Will lind me with the dead ; — 
1 wish my fall may be lik(! theirs, 

From lamentations free ; 
I ask no unavailing tears, 

No friends to (Jrikve for Mi:. 

(irieve for tlicnisdves, that they are left 

A thorny world to tread, 
]>ut not for him who goes to rest 

Among the (juiet dead ; 
For there no dreams disturb llu> mind, 

Though dark the mansion be ; 
And if in faith I sink resigned, 

Why need they Grievk for Me? 




Oh, if they knew my soul's unrest, 

Tlie agonies I hoar — 
If they could view my inmost hreast, 

And see the vulture there — 
They would not (ihain me to my woes, 

But freely let me thn;, 
Nor hreak their own })ur<; iieurt's repose 

Jiy Gkikving After Me. 

Around nohrotluirs how, 

No sisters vigils keej) ; 
No mother l)athes my aching brow, 

Or fans me while I slecsp. 
Alas ! I wouhl not have them near — 

Sad would their presence he; 
I could not hear their i)laints to hear. 

Or see tliem Orikvh I'on Mk. 

But there are those I dearly love. 

Whose i)ilgrimage is o'er. 
Called to the shining realms above, 

Whore sorrow is no more. 
1 humbly lio))e, O Ood to find 

A home with them and Thee ; 
And strengthen Thou each sufF'ring mind 

That vainly Grieves for Me. 



THL' RULING FAHSIOIS. 



+, 



LAS ! in all the human race, 
We may some ruling passion trace — 
Some monarch-feeling of the breast, 

That reigns supreme o'er all the rest. 

With some, it is the love of fame — 

A restless and disturbing flame, 

Which still incites to deeds sublime. 

Whether of virtue; or of crime. 

With others, 'tis the lust of gold — 

Sad malady of rooted hold. 







[c^^ 



..-■^ 



Which closer round the bosom twines, 

As virtue dies and life declines. 

With many, 'tis [but] the love of pleasure— 

A madness without metp or measure, 

Which never faileth soon or late, 

To ])lunge its votaries in the fate 

Of thoughtless tiies in comfits caught— 

Dying 'mid sweets too rashly sought. 

But woman, always gay and bright, 

(ireat Nation's pride and earth's delight. 

What is this monarch of thy soul — 

This tryant of sublime control. 

That tramples with despotic force 

All other feelings in its course ? — 

Thou needst not speak — thou needst not tell, 

For all who know thee know it well:- - 

We read it in that downcast eye, 

We learn it from that stifled sigh. 

We see it in the glowing blush 

That gives thy cdeek its rosy iiusli ; , 

And though compelled, by shame and pride, 

Deep in thy heart its sway to hide, 

Still do we know it as a fire 

Wliich only can with life expire — 

Sole inspiration of thy worth. 

And source of all that's good on earth. 

Love ! all-conquering and divine, 

We know where thou hast built thy shrine. 



IN LIFE'S UNCLOUDED, GAYER HOUR. 



%f^ life's unclouded, gayer hour, 
3 I I bowed to beauty's sway ; 
f I felt the eye's despotic power, 

And trembled in its ray ; 
But beauty now no more enthralls- 

Its magic spell hath flown ; 
Upon my heart it coldly falls, 

Like moonlight on a stone. 



Poets and Poetry of Texap. 



183 



Tlio cliords of feeling soon were broke, 

Where love delighted played ; 
Afflictions dealt too rude a stroke, 

And all in ruin laid ; 
Yet, lady fair, there was a time 

I niiglit have worshiped thee ; 
Tiiy beauty would have been the shrine 

Of my idolatry. 

That time is past, and I am left 

A sad sojourner here — 
Of hope, of joy, of all bereft. 

That makes existence dear. 
Despair hath o'er my bosonj cast 

The gloom of starless night — 
A darkness which through life must last, 

Unpierced by beauty's light. 



184 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MRS. WELTHEA B. LEACHMAN 



jJ||rS. LEACIIMAN is the dau-hter of Col. C. G. Bryant. 
^|l SIk- was born in (ialveston, December 2jth, 1847. While 
^' she was an infant, her parents moved to Corpus ("hristi, 

where her early life was passed. In 1860, she was jilaced in 
Orleans Academy to complete her education. Tlie next five 
years were passed amid scenes of war. It was during this pe- 
riod that her first poems were written. When scarcely fifteen 
years of age two of her poems attracted much attention. They 
developed in th(> young author tiie budding of poetic genius. 
Though the efforts of the seliool girl, yet they i)ossessed evi- 
dences of real merit. The closing years of the war, being sep- 
arated from home and friends by the blockage, she was placed 
under the care of an aunt residing in Boston. While in this 
city, she wrote Not Dtad, which elicited many kind criticisms. 
Especially was this tru(% when it was known that a school girl 
had written it. 

She was married to a Mr. Graham, i:i 180 >. This marriage 
did not terminate happily, and she was divorced in 1874. She 
married her present husband — an elegant gentlemen — ]\Ir. J. S. 
Leachman, in May, 1875. 

The loss of several children ami subsequent ill-health have 
so preyed upon her mind, as to almost paralyze any desire for 
literary notoriety. She is a lady of indomitable courage and 
indisputable genius. She exhibits both fire and energy. Her 
poems are pervaded with all the tenderness of which her sub- 
jects were susceptible. Her education is ample, and her talent 
is of the most commanding nature. She excites the admira- 
tion at once. 

It will not require much to convince the reader that the tn'o 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. IS" 



poems pro.-cnted here possess merit of a liigli order. Bltler- 
Sweet is a natural sta<ly, but does not possess the metrical 
beauty of The Hollow hy the Flare. 

I understand tluit ft[rs. Loachinan is collecting hor poems 
Avith a view of publishing them soon. I hope it will be done. 



BITTEB-SWEET. 



^m NDEPt the stars that mildly shine, 
%M1 Under the dark night's cover, 

^ Down in a (piiet sha(lowy glen, 

Where thti soft breezes hover, — 
Two tarry where the shadows meet, 
Jjcarning love's tale of Bitter-Swec^t. 

Hand clasped in hand, cheek pressed to cheek, 
Two hearts, both wildly beating, — 

Arms closely twined romid twining arms. 
And lips too fondly meeting; 

While love knows naught but love's deop bliss, 

Sealed by its signet seal — a kiss ! 

An<l dark (iyes gaze in darker orl)s 

Lit U|) with sweet beguiling. 
Within whose hazel depths, the deeps 

Of love's own dream is smiling; 
While pass the moments swift and fleet, 
And hours steal by with noiseless feet. 

Ah ! me, what matter how they flee ? 

For time hath many hours, 
But nono so sweet as those that pass 

Them by like summer showers ; 
For though they flee all swift and fleet. 
Love heads the chase — and love is sweet ! 

But then — oh ! then the parting comes, 
And two fond hearts are bleediu''". 



13 



And darker grows the dark niglit's fall, 

As the swift hours are speeding ; 
While love gives place to sorrow's spell, 
And bitter is the sad farewell ! 

Ah ! bitter-sweet, indeed, to some 
Comes love, and love's beguiling, 

When hearts must smother fondest dreams 
And lips know naught but smiling — 

And hand that should be clasped in hand 

Meets only in the summer-land ! 



'' THE HOLLOW DOWN BY THE FLARE:' 



^ ITTING alone in my darkened room. 
Alone by the fitful fire, 
A deepening gloom on the sky without, 
While within the flames leap higher, 
As the night-bells clang with a noisy din 

On the lusty midnight air 
And the shadows grow weird and vague, far down 
In " The hollow down by the flare." 

I press my brow with my burning hands 

'Till my dark eyes fiercely shine, 
One loosened tress of my hair creeps down, 

And my pale cheeks fiush like wine. 
The embers glow with a sullen red 

As the blaze grows bright and fair, 
And a host of forms go hurrying by 

In " The hollow down by the flare." 

I see a maid with a soulful eye 

And a red lip full of glee, 
Go tripping past with a lightsome step 

And I dream that maid was me ; 
She skips along with a half-breathed song 

To the wind flings every care, — 



Ports and Poetry of Texas. 187 



She dreams that a roseate future lies 
lu '^ The hollow down by the liave." 

A woman with sobered step then comes, 

Her e^'e on a distant star, 
She sighs in vain for a nearer gleam. 

But it only shines from far 
And fades. Fame's "will-o'-the-wisp'' 

Brings little but woe and care, 
And she weeps as she watches her vision fade 

In " The hollow down by the flare," 

I can look no more, for the embers red 

Have left not a spark behind, 
While the vague "to be " of that woman's years 

I must ask of the passing wind ; 
And oh ! must her dreams all blaze and burn 

And fade into ashes there, 
As she gropes alone 'mid the hurrying throng 

In " The hollow down by the flare?" 

Or, will there be one who shall read her soul. 

And grasping her trembling hand, 
Shall strength'n her heart for the struggle fierce 

'Mid the selfish worldly band ; 
Some kindly friend who shall soothe her sobs, 

With their sound of dull despair, 
And lead her on to the goal she seeks 

Past " The hollow down by the flare ?" 



188 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MISS WILLA D. LLOYD 



'HIS gifted young writer is a native Texan. She was born 
in Houston, September 17, 1860, and is a constant con- 
tributor to current literature, of poems and sketches. She 
was educated in Miss Brown's School, Houston, and Hamilton 
College, Lexington, Ky. From the latter she was graduated in 
1881, and was elected to read the class poem of the year. 

The longest poem I remember to have seen from Miss Willp, 
is Christmas Chimes, published in that elegant volume, Gems 
from a Texas Quarry. It is written in the negro dialect, and 
is very creditable, too. Christmas in Camp, which I give, 
has been published before, but it is not out of place here : — 



'WAS Christmas eve and the camp was gay, 
^1 J With song and laughter, wine and jest, 
♦"^ While the guns were hushed and muskets 
stacked. 
The god of war lay down to rest. 
The campfires gleamed with a ruddy glow, 

Their crackling pleasant music made, 
While red-cheeked apples roasted near. 
The booty of some orchard raid. 

The picket with his measured tread 

And ready gun marched to and fro, 
Alas, that in the Christmas time, 

To guard against some subtle foe ! 
And then when suddenly a lull 

Fell on the merry, laughing throng, 
A soldier rose and volunteered 

To sing the crowd a song. 

He sang of Dixie, and each voice 
Joined in the chorus loud, 



And patriotism burning bright, 

Inllamed the martial crowd. 
But when tlie last notes died away, 

And all once more was still, 
Another rose and sang of love, 

"Her bright smile haunts me still." 

And every heart to dreaming fell, 

Of some fair face well loved, 
And by the hush that fell on all, 

The power of love was proved. 
But war is but a transient thing, 

And love is apt to roam, 
But all hearts joined in brotherhood 

When singing "Home, Sweet Home." 

Oh ! eyes Avere dim, and husky throats 

Sang that old song sublime. 
Each heart was filled with yearning pain, 

As throbbing it kept time. 
And thus wherever men may be, 

On land or ocean's foam. 
The heart still turns with strong regret 

And love to "Home, Sweet Home." 

Beside the Dead evinces a true simplicity of style, which, a 
critic says "is another word for sincerity." It is a poem of 
undoubted merit and is a fair index to what will follow. It is 
a simple expression of love for the dead friend, and may rep- 
resent an aching heart's last tribute : — 

Within this darkened room he lies, 

In death's long, dreamless sleep, 
I calmly watch beside him here, 

I have no right to weep. 
I will not kiss the frozen lips, 

I never pressed in life, 
I leave that for the woman 

Who bore his name — his wife. 

I hear her sol)bing overhead, 
While I am dumb with pain, 



» J 1. I Hl l g; 




A leaden weight is on my heart, 

Another on my brain. 
She weeps lor him who loved her well, 

He never thought of me, 
He never dreamed I loved him, too, 

I could not let him sec. 

My poor, plain face i)ossessed no charms, 

To make his heart my own, 
And all the friendly words he gave, 

Were courtesy alone. 
And when at last he wooed a bride, 

I loved her for his sake, 
And blessed her in my prayers, altho' 

My heart was like to break. 

But now — He lies so quiet here. 

His hands crossed on his breast. 
Those strong, brown hands I never clasped. 

Are helpless and at rest. 
Good-bye! Oh, Love, a long good-bye ! 

I dare not touch your hand, 
But when you wake, perhaps, ah, me ! 

You'll know and understand. 



_.o^., 



J*. 



Poets and Poetry of Tkxas, 191 



JOHN HILL LUTHER. 



I^EV. J. H. LUTHER, D. D., is the honored President of 
^J\, Baylor College, Independence, Texas, and has occupied 
* that position since 1879, when he was chosen as the suc- 
cessor of that eminent divine and ripe scholar, William Royall, 
A. M. D. D. He was horn of Welsh and Huguenot parents in 
Warren, R. I., June 21, 1824. He graduated from Brown Uni- 
versity in 1817, receiving a diploma for the full college course. 
He received his theological training at Newton Theological 
Seminary, graduating from that school in 1850. He has had a 
varied experience as preacher, teacher and editor, and a rare 
versatility has enabled him to fill every position with distin- 
guished success. Of his success as editor and college president, 
J. Alleine Brown, the accomplished and talented musician in 
Baylor College, writes: "His [Luther's] creation of the Cen- 
irnl Baptist, and his consumate ability as its editor-in-chief for 
ten years, at a time when extraordinary talent was requisite in 
moulding and directing a chaotic state of afiairs, in general so- 
ciety, and in denominational work, was, perhaps, his most im- 
portant achievement in the past. For editorial work, his un- 
usual scope of literary power gives him a very great advantage. 
His uniformly pure English, together Avith the gift of an inf;U- 
lible perspicuity, Avill always awaken interest in the reader. 
As a preacher, he is always interesting and instructive. A 
sound theologian and expositor; in style imaginative and elec- 
trical, and had his life been devoted to the pulpit alone, no 
doubt he would have been one of the most distinguished 
preachers of the denomination to Avhicli he has l)een so devoted. 
His strength as a teacher and manager of college work is amply 
attested by his present position and success at Baylor.'' 



1J32 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Dr. Lutliur's life has been a studious one and he has given a 
very small share of his time to the cultivation of the Muses. 
What he has published was written for the amusement of some 
favored ouf. 

In 1885, he collected his verses and issued them in an unpre- 
tentious little volume which bears across its face these simple 
words : "IMv N'ki^ses." It contains about all he has written in 
verse and is ('ii('<)nij)assed in sixty pages. It was printed for 
private distribution, only. lie makes no etibrt at studied style, 
but has expressed his emotions in simple rhyme which is in 
consonance with his daily life. 

In i)crsonal appearance, Dr. Luther is small in statue with 
a keen, liright eye and dark hair, with si)rinkles of silver gray. 
His vivacious manners and ready wits, combine to make him 
a most agreeable companion, while his child-like simplicity, 
and christian furbeariincc, win all with whom he is brought into 
contact. 

Doctor Luther has a poor opinion of his poems and in a let- 
ter written just after he published My Verses, he says : "I have 
marked a few that I am willing to leave to my children. I wish 
the others had never seen the light." 



BATTLE HYMN. 



'IIEY are rising — they are marching 
From the mountains and the glen, 
'f From the prairies and savannas, 
A determined host of men. 

They are rushing to the seaside, 
They are forming on the plain, 

Whole brigades of daring spirits — 
Men too proud to wear a chain. 

They arc hastening to the contest 
With a faith that Heaven inspires, 



-~j. 



To protect the home and altar, 

And the rights God gave their sires. 

Onward, Frucmen ! till that l)anner 
Waves ah)ne in every tiehl : 

Onward till the hand of Justice 
Makes the maddened foeman yield. 

What if many a hravc heart bleedeth 

Ere the day's hard work is done, 
What if many a hero sleepeth 
Ere the victor's wreath is won. 

Songs of love and hymnsvof glory 
Shall await the true and brave, 

And the millions free and grateful 
Guard the fallen soldier's grave. 



THE SOLDIERS SONG. 



'HERE arc brave ones at the homestead, 

Brave as tread the tented plains, 
Women toiling hard and waiting- 
Waiting for their scanty gains ; 
Toiling till the day is ended. 

And the cradle hymn is sung, 
Watching, praying till the morning- 
Watching o'er the sleeping young. 

There are brave ones at the homestead, 
Sentinels who never fear ; 

Round the hearth-stone oft they rally. 
Met the bleeding heart to cheer ; 

Sisters, maidens, wives and mothers- 
Meeting in the watch-lire's light, 

To rehearse the battle's story, 
And to pray— ''God speed the right." 



rL«. 



194 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Oh the hopes that warm the bosom 

Of the mother all alone, 
Though she feels the winter coming, 

Hears the night-wind's plaintive moan. 
Oh the faith that nerves the maiden, 

While the foeman lurketh near. 
While she dreams the snow-clad prairie 

Buries all her heart holds dear. 

Ah the brave ones left behind us, 

They are falling, falling fast ; 
Though no lead nor steel come near them, 

War and Want will kill at last. 
God protect them in the household, 

Let their watch-fires brightly burn, 
Till the olive branch appeareth, 

And the absent ones return. 



NOW— THEN. 



^i KNOW not what may come, ere life 

fl Runs to its close — 
Defeat or triumph, 'mid the strife 
That brings repose. 

Fresh burdens may await the heart, 

NoAV faint and worn ; 
And honors, deemed mine own, depart, 

By others borne. 

A gentle hand is holding mine 

By day— by night ; 
And paths, iintrod before, now shine 

With glorious light. 

Oh, soul, thy lot is princely now, 
And ever more— 



r 



mmm'mm'mmmm 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 195 



To toil, to Avait, and then to know 
Him gone before — 

To watch and listen till He come, 

To bear me where 
The loved ones arc, my Heaven, my home, 

My Eden fair. 

I only ask to share while here 

The toil divine ; 
To crushed and wounded ones to bear 

The oil and wine ; 

Then 'neath the cross to lay ine doAvn 

To take sweet rest : 
And wake to wear the promised crown, 

Forever blest. 






196 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



SALLIE BALLARD MAYNARD. 




p RS. MAYNARD was born in Eatonton, Georgia, in 1841. 
She is a daughter of Dr. J. D. F. Hillyer, who came to 
Texas in 1847. 

At nine years of age she was carried^back'to Georgia to be edu- 
cated, and was placed in the family of an aunt. Her mother 
died soon after she was placed at school. In a few years her 
father married a second time, and she was brought back to 
Texas. 

At a very early age Mrs. Maynard evinced a strong desire to 
write verse, and her friends claimed for her a great originality 
of poet-narrative. At school she was the champion story-teller. 
She held her audience of schoolmates spell-bound for hours at 
a time. She possessed a romantic imagination, a vivid fancy, 
and a constructive facult}'-, in a remarkable degree. These 
powers remained with her till the last ; and even then, though 
Avorn by the battle of life, she delighted to revel in the fields of 
romance and poetry. She was possessed of a most cheerful 
disposition, and saidthat she never spent a lonely moment. "To 
be alone is a positive luxury," she writes to a friend, "espe- 
cially if I have time to pen the teeming thoughts that flit 
through my brain." 

She wrote with case, and often became enthusiastic upon a 
subject which acted like a stimulant upon her system. She 
felt the inspiration to her fingers' end. Her uncle once said of 
her : " Sallie. don't deserve any credit for writing poetry. She 
just fires up on a subject, sits down, puts her pen to the paper, 
and it writes itself." This was a quaint but true description 
of her mode of proceeding. I will illustrate her readiness for 
composition further by quoting from a writer, who said : "As 




ail instance of the facility with which she (Mrs. Ma5'nard) wrote, 
we will relate an incident wliich occurred a few ycurs since. 
Being in Austin at the time of JefF. Davis' visit to that city, 
she gave vent to her enthusiasm at beholding the great Confed- 
erate chief in a stirring, patriotic poem, addressed to him, 
which was puhlished in the morning Statesman. We were on 
the train, and saw some one hand Mr. Davis the poem. He 
read it, pronounced it heautifnl, and placed it in his pocket, to 
be preserved as a souvenir." 

At the age of fifteen Mrs. Maynard took charge of the music 
department of Mrs. Covey's school, it Hallettsville, Texas. At 
the close of the first session— June, 1857 — she was married to 
Mr. J. J. Ballard, of Kentucky. Mr. Ballard was a man of 
fine literary attainments, and he fostered, with strong though 
tender hand, her young Muse, and caused her to publish many 
of her early effusions. Literature was her passion, literary 
distinction her only ambition. But the hard fortunes of life 
have trampled under foot her Muse in a manner that Avould 
have discouraged a less hopeful and less willful mind. 

About four years after this marriage her husband was killed 
by an enemy. Thus, at the age of nineteen, she was left a 
widow with one little daughter to remind her of all she had 
lost. Then the war impoverished her, and she resorted to 
music teaching for sustenance. During a number of long and 
tedious years, she wrote and published many short poems, and 
a countless number of short stories, which were scattered pro- 
miscuously among her friends. She also wrote two novels, 
which have never been published. 

In 1871 she was married to Mr. B. Maynard, who survives her. 
She resided with her husband for some years in Bastrop, Texas, 
where she prepared for the press a novel, The Tivo Heroines; or, 
Valley Farm. Poor and unable to command the means to pub- 
lish this novel, it remains in manuscript. In a letter to me, 
January, 1878, she pens the following lines : — 



L. 



198 PoKTs AND Poetry of Texas. 



Home ! 

I have none. 
There is no spot on eartli 

Where I may bide, and say : " Here will I rest 
The sacred joys that grace this genial hearth 

Shall liinl sweet echo in my [)eaceful breast." 
No place tor me, when wearied with the stiife, 

The care and discord oC the world to come, 
And lay aside the bnrden of my life, 

Saying : Here will I rest , for this fs^ home. 

During her early life, Mrs. INFaynard wrote under the pseudo- 
nym of Halooi,oii. a sketch of her life, with extracts from 
her writings, appears in tlic Female Writers of the South, by 
Id;i Raymond, 

She died October G, 1882, while on a visit to her daughter, 
Mrs. Graves, in Milam county, Texas. 

The poems presented here show a fine cultivated taste. Had 
the South a literary })ublisher of her own, with facilities for 
publishing, Mrs. Maynard would have been recognized through- 
out the realms of American poesy as a writer of distinguished 
merit. Very few American poems excell in fine poetic imagery, 
in subtle succinctness and historic accuracy her poem Aradates. 
A distinguished St)nthcrn author says of it: " It is suhstanti- 
a???/ a poem that will bear the most scrutinous criticisms, and 
will emerge from the inundation unaltered and unimpaired." 

Had her novel, the pride of her heart and the petted child of 
her brain, been given to the world, her reputation would have 
been established, and her name made familiar to every reader 
of Southern literature. I understand that there is a move on 
foot to combine together the la creme of her prose and poetry, 
and issue them in book form. The literary world will gladly 
welcome such a book. 



ToETs AND Poetry of Texas. 199 



AB AD ATE 8, KING OF 8 US I AN A AND 1118 
CAPTIVE WIFE. 



cT^jfllE mornino- dawned on Lvdia's smiling plain 
^J , Where Crci'sus' host, and Persia's had reposed; 
^ And now, uprisen ^Yith the morning's beam, 
T'arm and fit them for th' impending strife. 
In solemn majesty the sun arose, 
(His pomp and splendor fitting for the day) 
When Persia's Victor Prince his ho^t arrayed 
In battle plight, near Tymbria's gleaming walls, 
'Gainst haughty Babylon's imi)erious King. 
Whose name proverbial for all wealth and pride 
O'er towered the mightiest Kingdoms of the East. 

Near Aradates' rich pavilion door 

A chariot waits for Susiana's King. 

Four jet black steeds, Arabia's fleetest race 

Pawed the green earth and champed the golden bit. 

And clothed with power arched each haughty neck, 

When pride was b.auty, motion, matchless grace. 

A charioteer firm handed grasped the reins. 

To stay or guide them in their destined course, 

The sounds of battle wooed them from afar. 

And loud impatient neigh their answer gave. 

The King came forth, his towering form arrayed 

In battle guise by Panthea's loving hand. 

With helmet, bracers, bracelets all of gold, 

Coat armor shielding every perfect limb, 

While plumes of Tyrian dye, surmount his crest. 

Fond tears would dim Panthea's mournful eyes ; 

She could no more embrace that mail clad form ; 

Or press those lips hid by the guarding gold ; 

But knelt, and kissed the scythe-armed charriot wheel, 

And bade him "speed to danger's great renown ; 

"To grace the front, in terror's beauty clad, 

" 'Till death, or glory, kissed his princely brow ; 



"t 



200 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



"And tlius acquit him of the f;;rutoful debt, 
"His n()l)lo caidor, by liis acts iini)Osed." 
The last proud words died on liis ])aling lips : 
The Kinu; bent low to breathe some ]iartinfi- vow. 
Then t^ave command, and forward dashed the steed 
And bore him strife-ward like a bolt of Jove. 



The sun hmii;- low, on L3'dia'b san^uini' i)lain 

The awiul strife had ceased ; the last dire sounds 

Fell few and ccholess from distant hills. 

J*authea bcMit above her fallen lord, 

Like Niobe. Not wild in tearful nu)od; 

]int calm as Sippilus' unchanging- rock 

In dark and stony grief; for mortal wounds 

Disdain the petty pang and anguished throb, 

And crush, but torture not. She turned away 

With cold hands clasped above a colder heart. 

The proud l)ut gloomfnl eyes which heavenward turned 

Gave forth no conscious ray. Her mournful voice, 

VViiose every tone was eloquent of ])ain, 

Ciave words to anguish that denied her tears. — 

"And art thou dead? How madly have I striven 

To cheat my wild heart with the vain belief 
That thou still liv'st. That in thine eye the heav'n 

Of love and ])eauty is unchanged. Oh, grief! 
I strive to think that still the matchless smile 

Wreathes thy proud lip as brightly as wf yore 
And beams as freshly. And I would beguile 

My i)hrensied soul with thoughts that once — once more 
Thou'lt waken. O! I cannot, dare not, think 

That 1 am severed from thy side forever ; 
That no more thy gentle looks and tones I'll drink. 

As the wild roe drinks the breath of morn. Never 
More hang on the loud accents of thy tongue 

As the rapt priestess bends at Delphi's shrine, 
'Til every heart-cord too intensely strung 

Quivers and breaks. Thus hath this heart of mine 
Worshiped too madly at thy ruined shrine. 
The stateliest cedar on high Lebanon 

Was not more glorious in its pride than thou : 



_l. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 201 



And thou hast perished ere the field was won, 

Wliere glory just ouv, moment lit thy hrow. 
Now Lehanon's proud cedar little prone 

Withered and blastcid by the storm king's breath, 
And thou ! my royal love ! my glorious one ! 

Art ruthlessly stricken I)y the hand of Death. 
The wind that sweeps o'er Lebanon's proud brow 

Wailcth a requiem o'er the lordly tree, 
And the wild brc^athings of my spirit now 

Is my soul's mournful reiiuiem for thee. 

She ceased, for soft intrusive steps draw near. 
She starts ! to meet a monarch's pitying eye 
Upon her turned : For Persia's conciuering King 
Bore in his dauntless breast a noble heart. 
That brow, now flushed with glory and renown, 
Well knew to sadden with another's woes. 
That eye, which never (piailed in peril's hour, 
Now softens at the sight of woman's tears. 
That voice, whose silver clarion tones rang out 
In signal song, now breathes to that lone one 
With tenderness the sympathetic thought. 
Panthea heard while seeming scarce to heed 
(As one coerced by love's sweet conquering force 
Yieldeth half conciously to stronger will) 
Sat down in silence abject and serene, 
And Cyrus left her with her d(;ad. Her grief, 
Like tropic storms in sudden calm subdued ; 
And thus she sate all passionless as stone, 
With head bowed low upon her nerveless hand. 
Marble in form, in face, and attitude— 
'Til starting up in Phrensy's fiercer mood, 
A maniac glitter in her tearless eye, 
And some new purpose quickened in her mind 
By direst woe, approached her husband's bier: 
Intensely calm, she gazed upon his pallid face, 
Probing'her soul with love's last agonized adieu; 
Then, fiercely calm, plucked from her girdled waist 
The glittering blade— and sheathed it in her heart! 



202 



Poets and Poetry of Texas, 



HOPE: 



tOUNG Hope and I were bosom friends ; 
And she was false, and I believing; 
Alasl how soon such friendship ends, 
When one is fond and one deceiving. 

When first she met me fair and smiling. 
Her aspect full of truth and grace ; 

How could I dream such false beguiling, 
Could mate with such an angel face ? 

With subtle sweetness in her words, 

Which swayed my soul with matchless power, 
She touched my spirit's lincst chords. 

And set them thrilling from that hour. 

Young Hope I ween is no ])atrition, 
8he walked with me my lunnble way. 

The lovely, false, profound magician, 
Bade gleams of glory o'er me i)lay, 

Fill full of joy, earth, sky, and air 

And tuned my heart in gladsome keeping. 

My soul felt little need of prayer. 

For sorrow had not taught her weeping. 

But when a threat'ning cloud appearing, 
Draped all my sky in gloom of night, 

The timid sprite grew faint and fearing. 
And plumed her errant wings for flight. 

And sad and lone amid the storm, 
My bosom filled with pain and terror; 

I sighed in vain for that fair form 
To guide me forth from gloom and error. 

' But when the sunshine breaking o'er me 
Re'Uimed my life with joy and light, 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



^- 



203 



Tlu' lonely Nymph nj)i)earc<l befi)ru me 
As tho' i^lie ne'er had shunned my sight. 

And then 1 siiid " Fair trider go ! 

'I hou art a friend of sunnncv weather." 
But smiling still she answered, "No, 

] will not leave thee all together." 

" Thou vain, thou weak, thou sinning mortal ! 

S})urn not a boon thy God has given ! 
I'd lead thee to Life's shining [)ortal 

And point thy erring soul to Heaven." 



204 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MARY HUNT M CALEB. 




RS. MARY HUNT McCALEB is a native of Kentucky, 
^but was reared and educated in the State of Mississippi. 
Her father, Col. Harper P. Hunt, located in Vicksburg 
and commenced the practice of law Avhen quite a young man. 
He was also a native of Kentucky, and soon after settling in 
Vicksburg married Miss Margaret Tompkins, of Brandenburg, 
Kentucky, who was at that time visiting her brother, Hon. P. 
W. Tompkins, afterwards representing his district in the Con- 
gress of the United States. Mary is the eldest daughter of this 
union. She was born at the old homestead of the grandfather, 
in Mead county, Kentucky. When only a few months old she 
was carried to Vicksburg where her father grew to be one of 
the most wealthy and influential citizens of that place. 

She claims to have inherited her poetic taste and talent from 
her mother's family who were all gifted in this way. Her father 
was a man of sterling worth, fine, clear, practical mind, and 
indomitable perseverance and energy. His love and admira- 
tion for his wife knew no bounds, and while he was a devoted 
father to all their children, he spoiled his daughter Mary who 
loved him in return with a love that even her own heart-in- 
spiring language could never portray. 

When she was a child she wrote many little poems for her 
friends, and frequently published them in the Vicksburg papers- 

About the close of the war she was married to Mr. D. Mc- 
Caleb, of Claiborne county, Mississippi. They had been be- 
trothed from childhood, and some of her earliest verses were 
inspired by her^ boyish lover. Soon after this marriage her 
old friend and teacher. Major W. C. Capers — himself a talented 
writer — collected her manuscripts and published poems, and 




MARY HUNT McCALEB. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 205 



issued them in a small 12 mo. volume, under her girlish non do 
plume, L'Eclair. The principal poem in this collection is a tale 
of the war, entitled Lenare. 

In 1873, she moved to Texas and settled in Dallas, where 
her husband became editor and one of the proprietors of the 
Herald. She contributed to it prose and poetry. They soon 
left Dallas and went to Galveston, where Col. McCaleb was em- 
ployed in the editorial department of the News. Here for the 
first time, and at the earnest desire of her husband, Mrs. Mc- 
Caleb published her poems over her real name. She soon won 
for herself a warm place in the affections of the people of 
Texas. The first poem I remember fo have seen over her name 
was published in the Galveston Nexos, about 1877 or 1878, and is 
entitled Just So ! I remember well the furor it created, and 
how Mary Hunt Afflick was accused of writing it, and how 
strenuously she disclaimed it. The author, Mary Hunt Mc- 
Caleb, was unknown, but her non de plume was the real char- 
acter; and when she began to publish over her own name, the 
casual reader thought a new poetic star had risen, and it took 
some time to fairly settle the mind of the people upon the fact 
that "L'Eclair" and Mary Hunt McCaleb were one and the 
same person. There is something about this little poem that 
attracted. It may have been the theme. I give it in full as 
illustrative of the simplicity of the author, with her doting ten- 
derness of soul : — 



f 



tOU may talk of the wise, prudent lady 
Who never was known to be kissed ; 
But give me the dear little maiden 
Whose lips I can never resist. 

'Tis little I'd care for a woman, 

Who frowned at the touch of her hand ; 

But the pressure of soft rosy fingers 
I swear I could never withstand. 



206 Poets and Poetry op Texas. 



I've heard of lovers who never 

Their haughty Dulcineas embraced — 

That is all well enough — they are suited — 
But 'tis not at all to my taste. 

Engaged to a girl and not kiss her, 

Is something I don't understand ; 
Why, I never can sit by my darling 

Without slyly squeezing her hand. 

Just think of it, boys, for a moment — 

The rapture, the exquisite bliss 
Of two rosy lips lifted up to your own, 

And you bending down for a kiss. 

A kiss is so very entrancing, 

It bears such a marvelous cliarm ; 
Don't tell me anything so delightful 
Could possibly be any harm. 

y 
Mrs. McCalebwas publishing a great deal about this time, al- 
though no domestic duties were neglected, and her two little 
ones born in the Island City, lacked none of a mother's loving 
care. With all the romance of a poetic temperament inherited 
from her mother, she combines the methodical, practical dispo. 
sition of her father. She possesses a keen sense of the ridicu- 
lous and an almost inexhaustable fund of humor and wit, that 
even the longest and most severe illness has failed to subdue. 
Generous and devoted in all her attachments, from its thorns 
she has always sought and found the roses of life turning stead- 
ily aside, obtaining her chief pleasure in the happiness of those 
she loves. 

Many sorrows have thrown their shadows across her life — ihe 
loss of her infant children, the reverses of fortune, the death of 
her father, and the lingering illness and death of her husband. 
She spent some months after Mr. McCaleb's death traveling 
and preparing her poems for publication. Hon. T. L. Odom, 
one of the wealthy cattle kings of Texas, was greatly attracted 



by one of her poems which a mere chance threw in his way. 
Then followed one of those strange chains of circumstances 
more romantic than real. A correspondence ensued which re- 
suited in the ultimate acquaintance of two parties pr^^ously 
unknown to each other. And after a time Mary Hunt McCaleb 
stood in the same parlor that had witnessed the marriage of her 
parents in Vicksburg and pledged her bridal vows for the second 
time. She thus became Mrs. Mary Hunt McCaleb Odom. 

Soon after her second marriage her poems were pubhshed in 
book form by G. P. Putnam & Sons, NewYork. 

In deference to the wishes of his wife, Col. Odom purchased 
her old home in Galveston, and erect-ed a handsome residence 
upon the same lot on which was, according to her own 
statement, 

Just a tiny little cottage 

In its nest of clinging vines 
Where the shadows linger softly 
And the golden sunlight shines. 

Here they reside with the youngest children of father and 
mother ; husband and wife. She has three sons of her first 
marriage. The eldest, a bright young man of nineteen, is cast- 
in- his fortune in Mississippi. The two little ones find a happy 
home in their stepfather's house. Mrs. Odom still writes, and 
her daily life is quite unpretending and happy. 

Among Mrs. Odom's poems, Lenare is one of singular beauty 
and power. It is too long for quotation, and the reader must 
be content to read only excerpts from it. The others which 
I present evince an exquisite taste for the tender and touching 
in poetic art. The Picture on the Wall is childlike and touching 
-indeed poesque— though tender, passionate and fond. It is 
full of pathos and affection, and describes just such scenes as 
are to be found in numerous Southern homes. Such words 
touch the heart of many, and I give it entire :— 



•t 



208 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



JUST between the curtained windows 
Where the shadows softly fall, 
I Leaving there a touch of sadness, 
Hangs a picture on the wall — 
Our sainted father's picture, 
Hanging there upon the wall. 

And the curtains as they waver 

In the breeze, and half unfold. 
Letting sunlight on the picture, 

Lay a band of purest gold. 
Make the dear eyes beam upon us — 

Beam and sparkle as of old. 

Softly on the noble forehead 

Lies the shining silver hair, 
As though the light of heaven had 

A moment rested there — 
Like a gleaming saintly halo, 

Just an instant lingered there. 

But the hot and bitter tear-drops 
From our orphaned hearts arise, 

When the picture looks upon us 
With such tender, loving eyes — . 

For Death has laid his fingers 
Coldly on those loving eyes. 

How we linger there before it, 

As our tears in silence fall, 
While the curtains waver sadly. 

And the shadows, like a pall, 
Fall about our father's picture 

As it hangs upon the wall. 

In a gentler vein is Little Relics. It has the tender pathos of 
Mrs. Shindler, and something of the gracefulness of Nettie 
Power Houston in it. Hear her refrain : — 

NLY a baby's picture, 

With dimpled shoulders ba^e ; 
Large blue eyes softly beaming. 
And rings of golden hair. 



_|. 



Only a faded relic, 

All wrinkled, soiled, and torn ; 
'Tis but a tiny stocking 

My little girl had worn. 

Only a knot of ribbon. 

More precious far than pearls ; 
It slipped, just as you see it, 

One evening from her curls. 

Only her broken playthings — 

Little dishes and her doll, 
Her pretty cups of silver — 

You see I keep them all. 

Only a little slipper 

That my pretty darling wore 
The first time that she tottered 

Across the chamber floor. 

Why do I keep and love them. 
When so many years have fled ? 

Don't you know ? They were my baby's, 
And the little one is dead. 

Mrs. Odom loves her sex and has peculiar ideas of their sta- 
tion. The following lines, written in a friend's album, will 
give one an idea of the estimate she places upon man who pays 
homage to woman. They are four — as follows : — 

The best and noblest part of man's life here 
Is that wherein he loves and honors woman ; 

'Tis there his soul is lifted to a higher sphere — 
In all things else his nature is but human. 

The following extract is taken from Lenare, Mrs, Odom's ear- 
liest and longest poem. It describes The Battle. It is a diffi- 
cult matter to give part of a poem like this without injury to 
the author, but the poem is too long to give entire, and I feel 
impressed that I must not omit it altogether : — 



210 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



+ 

fHE cannon's roar booms on the air, 
It tells that strife and blood are there ; 
Where foemen meet and deeply feel 
The deadly thrust of foemen's steel. 
There brothers meet in mortal strife, 
And loudly cry, "now, life for life." 
Now clears away the battle smoke, 
It shows the Northern columns broke. 
While Southern valor dashes on 
To make secure the vantage won. 
The Northmen rally, charge again, 
Again they are by thousands slain. 
'Tis vain to cast more life away. 
The Southern arms have won the day. 
Defeated, foiled, comi)elled to yield, 
The Northmen leave the gor3^ field. 
The Burg of Frederick long shall be 
Bloodstained in Northern memory. 
Night closed upon the gory scene, 
And quiet all, where late had been 
Such deatlly and such murderous fray, 
That friends were glad. to turn away. 
Extended far o'er hill and plain. 
Lay thousands of the ghastly slain. 
Their rigid forms now cold in death, 
Their heart's blood crimsoning the heath. 
What sight for human eyes to view ! 
Great heaven ! can such tails be true ? 
Can brothers meet as mortal foes. 
And strike such sure and deadly blows? 
See! weltering lies, bathed in his blood. 
The young, t.ic gifted, and the good; 
A widowed mother's darling son 
Lies cold in death — her only one — 
The life tide ebbing from his side. 
Alone upon the held he died. 
A youthful Northman, too, is there, 
Deej) dyed with blood his tlaxen hair ; 
The hissing lead had pierced his brain, 
. He ne'er will meet the foe again ; 
The silver cord of life is riven. 
He stands before the courts of Heaven. 



Hark! what low sound falls on the ear? 

Is it a dying groan we hear ? 

Some wounded soldier's feeble moan, 

Who scarce has strength enough to groan ? 

There, where most deadly was the Iray, 

Upon the ground poor Walter lay; 

A bleeding wound upon his brow, 

As pale as marble was it now 

Save where tlie blood oozed from the wound, 

And dripping, clotted on the ground. 

"Oh, give me water !" is his cry, 

"One cooling draught, or else I die !" 

Stealing along with coward tread, 

A Northman, who in strile had fled, 

Came creeping to that gory field 

To find the booty dead men yield. 

'J'his watch, who feared the light of day, 

Now neared the spot where Walter lay ; 

His feeble moan fell on his ear, 

He started back, and then drew near ; 

Stooped o'er the young and fallen brave, 

To steal some trinket from the grave. 

There shone upon the nerveless hand, 

A gift of love— a golden band 

Of little worth, save as a token. 

With beating heart, and trembling grasp. 

He seized the circlet in his grasp. 

Then turned to go— but paused again — 

What might tbat other hand contain? 

'Twas gathered closely to his breast, 

Within its pallid fingers pressed, 

Something the darkness had concealed, 

But which a rough grasp now revealed. 

Oh, Walter! rouse thy swooning sense, 

And spurn that thieving minion hence ! 

Reclaim that face, so passing fare. 

The worshiped image of T.enare ! 

That nerveless hand and swooning brow 

Can offer no resistance now. 

Hark! who comes there, with heavy tread, 

At this lone hour to seek the dead ? 

Some find, perchance to seek again 



212 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



A comrade 'mong the gory slain. 

The Northmen trembled now with dread, 

lie grasped his sinful gain and fled. 

He who would rob the dead by night, 
Must hide the guilty deed by flight, 
Nor stay to face an honest foe, 
But deeper still in darkness go. 

I close my notice of Mrs, Odom by calling the reader's atten- 
tion to one of her choicest subjects — Hood's Last Charge. The 
closing stanzas are particularly pleasing, I reproduce the poem 
in full :— 

*HE twilight of life is beginning to fall, 
/Death's shadows are creeping high up on the wall ; 
Eternity's Avaters arc plashing 
So close I can hear the wild waves as they roar 
And sullenly break on the surf-beaten shore. 
Their silver spray over me dashing. 

The old camp is fading away from my view ; 
I hear the last stroke of life's beating tattoo, — 

The sounds wear the muflle of sorrow. 
My campaigns arc ended, my battles are o'er, 
My heroes will follow my lead never more, 

No roll-call shall break on my morrow. 

But now I am fighting them over again ; 

On fioUL> that are gor}', 'mid heaps of the slain, 

The enemy swiftly are flying; 
The shrieking of shell and ihe cannon's deep boom 
Are thundering still at the gate of the tomb, 

The rattle of grape-shot replying. 

But ah! the last enemy conquers tonight. 
And death is the victor — in vain is the fight 

When God and his creature have striven ; 
The struggle is over; life's colors are furled — 
Are lost in the dark of the vanishing world ; 

The bonds of the spirit are riven. 




But ero I go down 'neath tlie conqueror's tread, 
And lie white and still in the ranks of the dead 

Through silence forever unbroken, 
To you, my old heroes, my Tkxas Brigade, 
From the dimness of death, from the cold of its shade, 

One last solemn charge must be spoken : 

'• My faithful old followers, steady and true. 
My children are orphans, — 1 give; them to you, 

A trust for your sacredest keeping. 
By the shades of the heroes who fought at your side, 
By the few who have lived, and the many who died, 

By the brave army silently sleeping. 

" By the charges I led, where you followed so true. 
When the soldiers in gray and the soldiers in blue. 

And the blood of the Vjravest was llowing, 
Be true to this last and this holiest trust, 
Tho' the heart of your leader has crumbled to dust, 

And grasses above him arc growing." 



214 



Poets and Poetky of Texas. 



R. B. M'EACHERN 



OBERT BRUCE MoEACHERN was bum in Lawrence 
county, Alabama, and has been blind from infancy. When 
quite young, his father moved to Texas, and settled in 
Rusk, Cherokee county, the present home of the poet. Here 
among the classic liills of old Cherokee, he rambled with flute 
or other musical instrument in hand; and here among the forest 
oaks the Muses found him, and he tuned his harp to sing the 
simple melodies which in his mature years were followed by 
those rich gems of poesy which have made his name a house- 
hold word in Eastern Texas. 

Mr. McEaehern, as his name indicates, is of Scottisli descent, 
and it seems that he has imbibed some of the spirit of his kin- 
dred countryman, tlie " SAveet singing Bard of Caledonia." 

When about sixteen years of age, the Legislature of our State 
made an appropriation for an Institution for the Blind, at Aus- 
tin ; he was among the first to avail himself of this, his first op- 
portunity, to attend a school suited to his misfortune, and his 
name today is upon the records of that noble institution as its 
first matriculate. He remained in Austin four years, and his pre- 
ceptors, were they all remaining, would bear witness that his ef- 
forts in pursuit of knowledge were ever energetic and untiring; 
his sole and only aim being to place himself above the common 
herd of men, and make a name that would reflect credit upon 
himself, his family, and his State. 

After his sudden call home by the death of his father, who 
lived but a short time after his return, he, despising the idea of 
being a dependent upon the labors of others, availed himself of 
the most excellent thorough training he had received in his 
favorite study — music — in Austin, and opened a school in Rusk, 



J_ 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 215 



at which place, and one or two others, he has since constantly 
taught, niakii^g a most enviable reputation for himself by his 
apt and comprehensive system of training, and his own 
thoroughness and capability in that department of education. 
But during all these long years he has written much and it is 
only recently that he has concluded to give to the world, in 
book form, wliat he has wiitten. 

Youthful Days and Other Poems speak much more for its 
author than any praise whicli 1 can give Mr. McEachern. 
Throughout that volume liis thoughts are expressed with cul- 
ture, force, and eloquence. This is the goal for which he has 
so long toiled, and the success with which everything he has 
written has met with, is due to the refined language he uses, 
with the mora] he seeks to inculcate in all he writes. Mr. Mc- 
Eachern is yet a young man — of indomitable energy and per- 
severence — he has yet a useful life before him, and should he 
still continue to court tlie Muses, T anticipate much pleasure in 
reading anything he may write. May he be long spared to all 
true lovers of poetry. 

Since the above sketch has been put in print, I have learned 
that Mr. McEacliern's mind is detroned and that he is an in- 
mate of the asylum at Austin, with poor prospects of recovery. 



TBJE TWO FRIENDS. 




E were friends in the palmy old days of the past, 
SJ-ji| |] When the present was hid from our view; 
4?' But we know that the chill of a wintry blast 
Is the prelude to summer and dew. 

We were friends in the beautiful morning that broke 

O'er the pathway we traveled so long ; 
And our parting is sad, but the heaviest stroke 

May be lightened and turned into song. 



We were friends in the evening that brought a respite 

To the sick and the suffering and poor ; 
And you told me of worlds, in the .sky of the night, 

As we sat on the step at the door. 

We'll be friends till the friendshii) of earth has grown cold, 
And our forms have been laid in the dust ; 

For a heart that is faithful is better than gold, 
And I know you are true to your trust. 

We'll be friends in that beautiful haven of rest, 
Where these tears shall be wiped from our eyes ; 

And we'll sing with the angels and dwell with the blest. 
Where the love of the soul never dies. 



WAITING. 



%i AM waiting for Jimmie to come, 
^1 And I know not how long it will be ; 
f But the angels that wafted him home 
May be patiently waiting for me. 

In his life, he was loving and kind; 

And in Heaven methinks he will say : 
" I've a brother on earth who is blind. 

Send an angel to show him the way." 

And the Father will grant the request 
For the sake of His son, Who was slain, 

That the weary might enter the rest 
Of the righteous, in glory to reign. 

When the beautiful messenger flies 
On the wings of the morning to me. 

From his radiant home in the skies, 
Jle will bear me, dear brother, to thee. 



And the portals behind me shall close, 
As I stand, with astonishment dumb, 

In the sanctified presence of those, 
Who are waiting for others to come. 

I shall hear the refrain of the Choirs, 
And be clothed with a garment of white, 

While the song of Redemption inspires 
All my soul with ecstatic delight- 

And I'll treasure the tone and the time. 
And remember the pitch of the bars 

Till the marmony, grand and sublime 
Is sustained by a chorus of stars. 

Then I'll wander along the bright shores 
Of that Beautiful River above, 

'Till the Savior my vision restores. 
And my heart is renewed by His love. 

I shall look on the features of those 
Who have led me so tenderly here ; 

And forget that I ever had foes 

Who could smile at the fall of a tear. 

Thus, I'm waiting for Jimmie to come. 
And I know not how long it will be ; 

But the angels that wafted him home, 
May be patiently waiting for me. 

Oh, the riches of heavenly grace, 
What an ocean without an alloy ! 

I shall rise from the icy embrace 
Of the grave, to a mansion of joy. 



— ^-Sf=:^l^r:3l^^— 



15 



218 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



JOHN ALBERT MURPHY. 



N the eastern slope of the riclge 'dividing the waters of 
'Abbott's Creek and Rich Fork, in Davidson county, North 
Carolina, stood a little wooden cottage, the birth place of 
the author of Cosinoiitoria. If tliere is a poetry in nature that 
inspires some favored genius, born in the midst of its charms 
with the spirit of its sweetness and beauty, it is but just to say 
that in this land, this 'gift divine has been nncharily bestowed. 
The mountain grandeur of the Appalachian Highlands, the ocean 
majesty of the Atlantic, and the wild variations of romantic 
scenery, were powerful agencies, moulding and inspiring the 
young mind that in after years should take rank with the sweet 
singers of the South. The laurels that grew indigenous on the 
banks of the limpid streams are the fadeless emblems of the 
honors that endure upon the name of the hero of New Orleans 
and of the Bismarck of America, who were born there, as well 
as upon that of the gifted author of Cosinostoria. His parents, 
John and Mary Livengood Murphy, were only well-to-do in 
worldy resources, pursuing husbandry as the business of their 
life. To this, their children, two brothers and two sisters, of 
whom John Albert is the youngest, were brought up. They 
possessed a degree of intelligence above the average of their day. 
Mr. Murphy having taught school at a time when, in the rural 
districts, graduation took place at the end of Scott's Lessons 
and Pike's arithmetic. 

Not until he was ten years old did the golden haired boy enter 
the little log school house at Reedy Run, which Avas three miles 
distant from the homestead. But it must not be concluded from 
this that he began at this time to take the initial steps to edu- 
cation, for he does not remember, it is said, the time he could 
not read. Reedy Run might be called his Alma Mater in the 




JOHN ALBERT MURPHY. 



rudimentary branches of education. Having a sprightly and 
vigorous inind and an indomitable ambition to excel, he always 
stood at the head of his class. In the fall of 1853 he entered 
Catawba College, in the town of Newton of that State, where he 
maintained a most enviable reputation for those embryonic ele- 
ments, which, in after years, made the stai)le of his character. 
liis collegiate course did not conclude in graduation according 
to the regular curriculum, but laid the foundation for a devel- 
opment of mind broad and critical. 

He was married in early life to Miss Louisa Jane Yokley, 
the daughter of David Yokley, Esq., of Davidson county, 
North Carolina, and in the fall of ia57, joined the St. Louis 
Conference of the M. E. Church South. For twenty-two suc- 
cessive years he served as pastor in honored positions — in 
charge of circuits, stations, and on districts as Presiding Elder. 
In 1879 he was transferred to the Northwest Texas Conference, 
and at the end of five years located at and is now a citizen of 
Austin. 

Cosmostoria is by far the most finished and polished poem 
Mr. Murphy has ever written, and ranks high with Paradise 
Lost, the Messiade, and the Aiujel in the Cloud. When a stu- 
dent sits down to read an epic, it is generally a task, or from a 
feeling of duty. No doubt Waller felt this when he says of the 
Paradise Lost : "The old blind school-master, John Milton, 
has published a tedious poem on the Fall of Man ; if its length 
be not considered a merit, it hath no other." Waller was not 
as generous as the Grecians. We are told that Tasso and 
Homer were not admired for their poetry alone, but the moral 
tone of their writings was talked of and rehearsed from family 
to family, and thus the critic was unarmed. As long as one of 
their masters kept within the bounds of reason, justice and 
morality, so long was he toasted, loved and venerated ; but the 
very first departure from these, brought with it condemnation^^ 
envy and final ahandonnement. On account of the looseness of 
Arciiilochus' poetic numbers, he was banished from his ances- 



220 ' Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



tral home, where his genius found no favor. His writings, 
though full of fire and vigor, were exceedingly biting and licen- 
tious, and more likely to corrupt the youths than become use- 
ful in cultivating their understandings. Thus he passed a life 
of misery. Reproach, ignominy, contempt, and poverty, were 
the ordinary companions of his person ; while admiration, 
glory, respect, splendor, and even magnificence, Avere the mel- 
ancholy attendants of his shades. There is a tendency toward 
the moral in poetic numbers. This may be owing to the de- 
mands of the times, but we think it owing to the fact that man 
js always inclined to religious reflections, even in the midst of 
great adversity or prosperity. 

The author of Cosuiostoria is a poet of very great genius. In 
the poet's flight from region to region, between heaven and hell, 
he feels what Milton felt when let down into "chaos and old 
night." The style of the author is admirable, and the poem 
rich in imagery and sublime pathos. He combines scholarship 
with ability, cultivated taste with industry. He is pure, clear, 
vigorous, direct and impressive, and in his sphere of labor, is 
as fine, as polished, as ornate, as that of any American writer- 
The beautiful phraseology of the strictly faultless rhyme in 
which the author has chosen to clothe his poem throughout, is 
bright to gorgeousness and decorative display — varied, profuse, 
and effervescent, and seems at times to constitute an array of 
ornamentations creditable indeed to the designer for ingenuity, 
arrangement and elaborate skill. The very evident conciseness, 
the succinctness of the design, not satiating with long-drawn 
digressive descriptions, unincumbered with the slow march of 
the Miltonic poem, is truly wonderful, considering the magni- 
tude of the theme. It abounds in beautiful expressions and 
felicitous phrases. The following beautifully expressed confi- 
dence, being an episode on woman, illustrates the author's 
feeling. It is a most magnificent tribute, and is taken from 
Ninth Part, after Eve had induced Adam to eat the forbidden 
fruit : — 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 221 



'AIR woman, thou art in thy ruins grand; 

And, like the autumn leaf, art lovely still, 
Though changed ; thy very weakness doth command 

Thy lord's divinest love, and rules his will. 
Unseen, though felt, the scepter of thy power 

Rules as it is, the world, or might have been ; 
Thy gallant husband owned it in the hour, 

VVhen for thy sake alone he dared to sin. 
Thrones weaken at thy love's bewitching art. 

And conquering armies march in thy employ ; 
Bathsheba's charms imprisoned David's heart, 

And Helen's beauty caused the fall of Troy. 
In secret power thy fingers touch the spring 

That bares the treasured wealth, of mammon's store ; 
Thy graces to the halls of pleasure bring 

The sole resistless charm of value more. 
For thee thy smitten lords all fears dismiss, 

And pour the crimson flood in deadly strife. 
That some strong lover might, in nuptial bliss, ^ 

Embrace thy charming hand, and call the wife. 
The stalwart arm its ready strength expends. 

From dewy morn till starry eve, for thee ; 
And mighty mind its willing tribute lends, 

And at thy feet bestows its homage free. 
All oceans have for thee been bravely sailed. 

Nor pilgrimage of peril deemed too great ; 
The dangers of all mountains have been scaled 

To witness to thy worth and on thee wait. 

About thy husband's care thou dost entwine, 

As like a cheerful wreath of evergreen ; 
And in his household art a fruitful vine. 

Whose branches cluster in a living screen. 
When trials thicken on his weary path, 

Thy strong devotion strengthens with each stroke ; 
And fiercer blasts of the devouring wrath 

Inspire thy zeal and new thy aid invoke. 
Thy gentle hands oft soothes his fevered brow. 

Nor tires beneath the languid flight of years ; 
As fragrant bloom adorns the thorny bough. 

Thy presence sweet his wasting sickness cheers ; 
Thy touches warm melt off the gathering frost, 

And kisses mark his slow receding breath. 



'I-"-*- 



Thy flowing tears embalm the treasure lost, 
And, true in life, thou lovest him in death. 

Untaught the better wa}'-, where idols reign, 
Thou mountest bold thy husband's funeral pyre, 

And, to attest thy love, thou dost disdain 
All fear to burn in his cremation fire. 

The rank that Cosmostoria will occupy in the literature of this 
century is not difficult to tell. Its modest form and limited 
circulation cannot always keep it in the back ground. It will 
make itself known and felt when the world knows of its exist- 
ence. It may require the pen of a Macaulay or the learning of 
a Masson to bring it to that pictured eminence upon which its 
author has so long delighted to gaze. 

Mr. Murphy's best short poems are Our Silver Wedding, Pro- 
gressive Perfection, and Texas. Our Silver Wedding was written 
on the celebration of his silver wedding, June 30, 1881, and con- 
tains some very tender and touching tributes to his wife. 

Progressive Perfection was read before the Clionian Society of 
Marvin College, June 14, 1881. It'was well received and elic- 
ited quite an applause. Of this poem a writer says : 

"The subject of the poem was Progressive Perfection and of 
his deep inspirations, sublime flights, flowery conceptions, and 
rich and chosen figures, the poet seems to have combined the 
beautiful imagery of Moore, the sublimity of Milton, the fire, 
energy, and condensed brilliancy of Gray, and the inimitable 
melody, tenderness, and simplicity of Byron. Any effort to 
abridge the lofty sentiments contained in that beautiful po.em 
would be as vain as an attempt to portray upon canvass the 
rich golden colors of sunset." 

I select one passage alone from this poem as its length will 
prevent its publication complete : — 

Warmed by deceptive sunshine into life, 
Some flowers try to blossom in the snow, 

But frozen early, cease unequal strife, 
And wrap themselves in mantling whiteness Low. 



)^ 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 22^ 



Thus oft does struggling genius strive to rise, 
At first by friendship lured to soar alone, 

Then hurled by adverse storms from tempting skies. 
And early doomed to live and die unknown. 

Texas is the longest of his short poems. It was written on 
the occasion of the laying of the corner stone of the capitol of 
the State of Texas, March 2nd, 1885. 

On the 11th of June, 1885, Trinity College, North Carolina, 
conferred upon Mr. Murphy the degree of Master of Arts — an 
honor not at all inappropriately bestowed. 

THE FIRST FALLEN SOLDIER OF 1861. 



'HE bow is in the clouds 

^Whose arch lies in the sky and spans the race. 
With peace, slain hero, it enshrouds 
Thy resting place. 

The star is in the sky 
That once illumed the sepulcher divine ; 
Now, in the march of centuries by, 
It shines on thine. 

There's sweetness in the air, 
Lent for perfumes to constant nature's claim, 
That she may, with her latest care, 
Embalm thy name. 

There's beauty on the lea ; 
Its myriad charms their ample wealth combine, 
And closing round, thy memory 
And dust enshrine. 

There's music everywhere. 
In earth and sky, and in the ocean surge; 
'Tis nature's mournful way to share 
Thy funeral dirge. 



4 



There's light in heaven above; 
Its burning Lamps their shining stations keep ; 
And day and night while cycles move, 
They guard thy sleep. 

There's love in human hearts 
That over death achieves the victory, 
And will, as hoary time departs, 
Kemembcr thee. 

The gold-winged butterflies 
In pensive groups display, like living bloom, 
Their blended beauties e'er they rise 
From off thy tomb. 

Beneath the sod to lie ; 
If thus, perchance, thy comrades dared to pause 
To put thee there, who dared to die 
For freedom's cause. 

Death In-ought thee late renown ; 
But gave thee not the soul the patriot bears ; 
Nor put upon thy head the crown 
The hero wears. 

Thy bed of clay unknown. 
The bitter tears of solitude receives, 
And of the flowers by nature strown 
A garland weaves. 

Her deepest mourning wears ; 
Her brow and breast with flashing diamonds spread, 
The sable virgin Night her tears 
Weeps o'er thy head. 

And Day, with vesture bright. 
And lavish smiles upon the good and brave, 
Awards to thee the soldier's right, 
An honored grave. 

No midnight bugle blast. 
From peaceful sleep shall rouse thy valiant soul, 
Till heaven's Connnander calls at last 
The Judgment-roll. 



Then, in the great review, 
When uniforms and crowns shall never fade, 
Hero, receive thy honors due 
On grand parade. 



LOUISA, OR OUR SILVER WEDDING DAY. 



(^ S oft as the snow-clouds have fled, 
/^The roses have bloomed on our way, 
<^^ And the winter's crisped locks have as often 
outspread 
Into gold-flowing streamers from summer's gay head, 
Through the twenty-five years to this day. 

Louisa, we're husband and wife. 

And started in love's early cheer 
From the dew-glistening hills of the springtime of life, 
And we've reached in our journey the summer-land strife, 

And the autumn and winter are near. 

Our love has been brought to the test 

By fires that have burned in the race, 
But our virtue as pure as in childhood possessed 
We have kept and will lay at the borders of rest. 

As a trophy of mightiest grace. 

■ My darling, just twenty-five Junes, 

Like roses with snow drifts between, 
Made immortal with notes of the mocking-bird's tunes, 
And the silvery hair of as many full moons, 

Now imborder the marital scene. 

In memory I linger a while, 

Lost roses of youth to regain, 
For I seem to be watching that Venus-like smile, 
That bewitchingly strayed from the sweet fairy isle, 

Where the honey-moon fulls to remain. 



1 linger, and over the field 

Will nnninate, blithesonu! and free, 
\\'heiu'e the broad-breasted mountains of eare Avere con- 
cealed, 
And our f()r(une huuj:; low like a fane\•-^Yroug•lll shield 

On the walls of the West, we now see. 

l\Iy darlinj;-, the Ifeavenly Dove, 

l'\)r us has the greatest things done ; 
Vov the life-giving angel has eome from above. 
And has twelve times ignited the altar of love, 

\\'ith the sparks from eternity's sun. 

1 know you remember the hour, 
One, lliekering, wont out in your arms ; 
And a palaee was there, whii'h tlie lilies endH)wer, 
And sweet roses immortal eneir(\l(Hl the tower, 
And it roso and was lost in the eharms. 

The sight of thos(* nu»rning-lit lands 
Kemains with their dew-hun\ished sod, 
W'luMe ou.r shoulder.^ were stumbled with ivory bands, 
l>eing pressed with the touehes td" wax-lingered hands, 
As wi' passed 'neath t lie chastening rod. 

1 hear now the eadenec>s break 

Ol the love-bearing wavtdets below, 
When we started the haven of glory to make. 
As wi^ launched our eanoe on the uuplial-sailed lake. 

Only twenty-live summers ago. 

Their feet still resound on the bar, 

As, lloating, we left the sln>re-light. 
And hav(> followi>d the gleam of the fate-guiiling star, 
Until now we have ri>wed down the river so far. 

That the isle o( the bh\^t is in sight. 

]\Iy love, as the storm-clouds have eome 

And angrily blacken the sky. 
You have balanced oin- bark as it cut through the foam. 
Ami discerned through the spray the sweet groves o[' the 
l\onu^, 

WMiore the blossoms and leaves never die. 



Poets and Poethy ok Texah. 227 



What tumult of rapture is this 

That roars in the; iuhnito gh'arn ? 
Oh ! th(! frionds tliat wo meet and the lips lliat vvc kiss 
As wo Hoat tow'rd the (!()ral-i)a,ved haven oi" hliss, 

Down th(! !aur(!l-rrin<red banks of the stream. 

We, un(h'r the willows, have laid 
Our treasures wrai)i)e(l uj) in the sod. 
And ahi(UnK with them we would ghidly have stayed , 
J'>ut they told us they were l)y the an^roln convoyed 
To the neetar-hived gardens of (iod. 

The milestones tliat mark tlic {i;i"<'on sliore 

l/ik(! s<)l(U(!rs with hanners ot't^'old, 
Are retriiatiufj; so fast we can count them nc) more, 
For the current se(^ms swiftcu- tiian liver Ijei'ore 

As the sunset's red glories untold. 

My love, wIkmi the sun gets low down, 
You, toil-worn will row with much pain, 
I'.ut the beacon-light guiding t,o life and renown 
Will sustain you, when summer surrenders the crown 
'i'o our life's purple; autumn to reign. 

Already t,he breezes we feel 
P.low soft from the bright suminer land, 
And they sonu;times echo on the bow of the keel 
Th(! fragments of tune, which the water-waves steal 
As th(!y sphish on tin; limitless strand. 

"Ho tired !" Did J hear you complain 

As feebly the oar strikes th(i wave? 

In the island of light, we nrv. hoping to gain. 
There is rest uiuhu- roses, life's waters sustain, 
While the coasts, they eternally lave. 

The perils of voyage we spurn, 
Though storms down the river alfright : 
For we'll hold to the oars till the pale waters turn, 
And the fring(!S of life's sinking shadow shall burn 
In the rays of eternity's light. 



Ere long one must row without mate 
Down stream, a frail fragment of love ; 
But llu! other will watch at the hridechamber gate, 
Till both have arrived to be wedded in state 
111 the holy cathedral above. 

The High Priest regaled with the sun 

WW] at the white alter a{)pear, 
And of twain will pronounce us eternally one, 
While tiui strands of orange bloom over us run 

Through the June of the winterless year. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 229 



R. M. POTTER. 



'HE condition of ;i (.'ountry is geina'iilly coniplctc;] y ;in<l 
faitlifully roi)rc.scnte(l by its liicruturc. 'J'ho early poetry 
of Texas belon<(s to a period when the jjeople wcsrc i)re^- 
nant witli grief. It rose in tlu; most stirring and agitating times 
which accompanied the development of a Repuhlican form of 
governnniiit in a new State — times in vvhich each individnnl 
gave vent to his desires and liopes, and all the depths of the 
liuman heart weit! nnlocked hy poetic inspiration. We feel an 
interest in what tluiy said, and what they sutrered, but only 
such an interest as wo sliould feel. The traces of incident did 
not follow one another in calm, (juiet, and regular ord(!r ; the 
action stopped at intervals, and the scenes and localities were 
continually undergoing changes. Yet theri; is much of unity 
and simplicity ; the figures stand out inore boldl}', and in 
strong relief; they dravr largely on the imagination ; they pre- 
sent scenes to the eye, make palpable to the touch ; they arc 
stee})(;d in the rainb(nv hues of fancy. The poems of JNIr. J'ot- 
ter belong to this period, lie associated his name; and history 
with so many places and persons, that almost every Texan, at 
some time or other, is drawn into an ideal accpiaintance with 
him. He is well known in Texas, and indeed throughout the 
United States, by his [)oem, TJie Jfynin of the Alamo; and had 
he given to the world nothing more, this one poem is suflicient 
to place him among the greatest writers of our dear Southland. 
Mr. Potter was born February 15, 1802. He is a native of 
Woodbridge, New Jersey. In the winter of 1827 he went to 
Mexico to seek his fortune. He remained there till the spring 
of 18o7, omitting one year spent in the North. During this 
residence in Mexico, he was occupied mostly as the interior 



230 Poets and Poetry op Texas. 



agent of a commercial house in Monterey. While residing in 
Mexico, the war for Texas independence was begun, and was 
decided, but not ended. In the spring of 1830, about twenty- 
Texan prisoners of war, captured in and near San Patricio, were 
brought to Matamoras, and condemned to be shot as rebels. 
Though the execution of tlieir sentence was announced to take 
place on the IGth of April, three days grace was allowed by 
law. Mr. Potter drew up a petition and had it signed by the 
prisoners, praying for the three days grace. The respite was 
granted. This act of Mr. Potter's proved the means of saving 
life. It gave time for sympathy to work, and an effort, in which 
all the leading residents — native and ibreign — ^_ioined, succeeded, 
late at night of the third day, in securing a further respite of 
twenty days. Before the twenty da^^s had expired, the gen- 
eral received from the City of Mexico a decree of amnesty re- 
lieving from the death penalty all captured rebels, who had not 
been executed. Five months later these prisoners were released 
on parole by Gen. Bravo on the petition drawn up and presented 
by Mr. Potter, after having obtained their signatures ; but be- 
fore this occurred the interest he had evinced in their fate 
brought him into some danger, i 

These prisoners were so shamefully neglected by their custo- 
dians, that they were, during the early months of their cap- 
tivity, in danger of famishing. They were for some time sup- 
plied by a contribution of the American residents ; but at length 
circumstanc.'S threw upon Mr. Potter, solely, the duty of ad- 
vancing their rations for the Commissariat, which promised to 
reimburse him, but never did. (This claim was, however, 
afterwards paid by the Government of Texas.) It was this cir- 
cumstance, more than any other, which directed to Mr. Potter 
the attention of the military authorities, and he was suspected 
of being in communication with the insurgents of Texas, and 
of aiding prisoners to escape. While Gen. Urrea was in com- 
mand at INIatamoras, after the invading army had retreated 
thither from Texas, the suspicion against Mr. Potter became so 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 231 



rife that there was a possibility of the accusation being proven 
by testimony not altogether false. He was warned of the ap- 
proaching danger by an officer of rank with whom he was inti- 
mate, and who advised him to close his business, and be in 
readiness for a sudden exit, in case of necessity. He accord- 
ingly brought what was a losing business to an end as soon as 
it could be done ; but the suspicion passed of!', and he did not 
leave Mexico till the sjn-ing of 1837. 

After a brief sojourn in Pensaoola and New Orleans, Mr. Pot- 
ter came to Texas, landing at Velasco, July 20, 1837. His resi- 
dence in Texas as a citizen continued till December, 1846. 
During most of that time he was in the Service of the revenue 
departn:ient, being Deputy Collector, and afterwards Collector 
of Customs at Velasco, from 1838 to the end of 1844. In the 
summer of the latter year, and while holding the last mentioned 
office, he was sent by the Secretary of the Treasury as a secret 
agent to Vera Cruz, to find means for conveying to the Meir 
prisoners, then confined in the Castle of Perote, a sum of money 
which had been a])propriated for their relief. The sending of 
special agents had become necessary, the Secretary thought, 
because his correspondence had failed to secure the services of 
the only resident of Vera Cruz whom he knew well enough to 
risk with appropriations. Mr. Potter went at once to New Or- 
leans, where he procured passport as an American citizen, and 
sailed thence to Vera Cruz on a Mexican steamer. He soon saw 
the merchant to whom the Secretary had written, and found no 
difficulty in inducing him to accept the agency. This obviated 
the necessity of Mr. Potter's proceeding to the interior, which 
his instructions required him to do, if needful. The funds 
placed at the disposal of the agent could not be immediately 
conveyed to the prisoners, as he had to proceed with cau- 
tion. But they served to relieve their later wants, and to pro- 
cure homeward transportation for the few of their number who 
were so fortunate as to escape being shot, and who were libera- 
ted about five months later. 



232 PoKTS AM) POETUV OF TlO.VAS. 



Mr. rotitT was in Austin wIkmi, in h'lihruary, ISIO, (he Re- 
])iil)lic of Tcxus made its final exit IVosn the stage oi" nations. 
ilo was ()llri(Ml, and accei)ted, the chief clerkslup of the State 
('((luplrolh'i 's ollicc. In about a year's time he resigned and 
acecptcd a [Auca) with (u'neral Jcsuj), at Ni'W Orleans. 

In IMareli, ISlS, he was api^ointed by PrcsiiUnit Polk a mili- 
tary storcl^ccpcr of {\\c ([uartermasliM's department, lie was 
not assigned to re<:,ular duty till ISl'.), when lu; took charge of 
largo depots of army clothing and ciptipage in New Orleans, 
rhil;idelphi;i, and San Antoi»io. ile was at San Antonio when 
the war between the Stales broke out, and had the misfortune 
of being one of tln^ victims of Twigg's surrender. 

In 1875 Mr. Potter received an injury which, for a time, crip- 
])led him, and justilled him in obtaining a leave for disability, 
a leave whieii the inlirmaties of age are likely to render perma- 
nent, as he has lately comidetcd his eightieth year. The end 
of this month (March ISSf)) will complete the thirty-sixth year 
of his service in the army, and he has only once had the morti- 
iication to stand bt'fore a court nuirtial. 

His domestic relations did not commence early in life, lie 
was married at Austin in 18r>;{, when his post of iluty was New 
Orleans. 

Mr. Potter's desire for literary glory has not been strong, 
and he has never performed any literary labor, when other 
duties denumded his attention. 

The oidy book ever published from his [)en was an old-fash- 
ion live-act tragedy in blank verse, wdiich was performed with 
tt)lcrable success at the old Park Theater of New York, after 
which it went to the limbo of dead works. 

Ilis account of the Fall of the Alamo, as published in the 
Magazine of American History, is by far the most accurate, and 
at the same time the most authentic account of that bloody 
tragedy, though he makes the common error in regard to Lieut. 
Dickerson's lea]) from the building. Anything like a history 
of the allair would occupy too much space, and lead me from 



L 



Poets and Poetry of Tkxas. 



233 



my »)l)joci. For ii j^M;ii)lii(; account of the I'^ill of the Alamo, I 
n^fcr the vciidrA- to the little i)auii)hlct edited hy Col. R. M. 
Potter. 

The poems introduced hero will illustnito iii.s genius, and 
give him the !c[)utation of a writer of no mean ahility. 

HYMN OF THE ALAMO. 



H\ 



ISK^ iiiun the wall, our clarion's hlast 

nil i\ Now sounds its linal reveille 1 
„ This dawning morn must be the last 

Our fated band shall ever see : 
To life, but not to hope, farewell — 

Yon trumpet's clang, and cannon's ])eal, 
And stormi)ig shout, and clash of steel, 
Are ours, hut not our cituntry's kneel. 
Welconu! the Spartan's death — 

'Tis no despairing strife — 
\V(! fall, we die, but our ex|)iring hre:itli 

is Freedom's breath of life! 

llei'e, on this new Thermopyhe, 
Our inonument will tower on liigh. 

And Alamo herciafter be 

In hloodier lields the battle cry 1" 

Thus Travis from the rampart cried, 
And when his warriois saw the foo 
Jyike wludming billows move below, 

At onci! each dauntless heart rc[)lied, — 

"Welcome the S[)artan'H death — 
'Tis no de8])airing strife — 

We fall, we die, hut our expiring breath 
Is Freedom's breath of lite ! 

They come ; like autumn's leaves they fall,— 
Yet, hordes on hordes, they onwar<l rush; 

With gory tramp they mount the wall, 
Till numbers the defenders crush, — 



16 



234 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Till falls their flag when none remains ! 

Well may the ruffians quake to tell 
How Travis and his hundred fell 

Amid a thousand foemen slain. 
They died the Spartan's death, 

Rut not in hopeless strife, — 
Like hrothers died ; and their expiring hrcath 

Was Freedom's breath of life. 



tb:e old texian hunteb. 



f*||l1lHERE murmurs Guadalupe's stream along its rocky bed, 
^|4i llEnibowered in live-oak grove, there stands a lonely shed 
''Y* AH mossy grown, for cold hath been its hearth for many a 

3^ ear — 
God rest his soul who once abode all in that cabin drear ; 
A fine old Texian hunter he, all of the prairies wild. 

A lonely, strange, untaught old man — no care or fear he knew, 
So happyjn his solitude, so guiltless, kind and true, 
With a heart that like his ritle good, ne'er wavered in its aim ; 
In weal or woe to friend or foe, its truth Avasaye the same ; 
For a fine old Texian hunter bold, Avaslie who roamed the wild. 

He seldom sought the busy scene where men together dwelt, 
Yet kindly towards his fellow-man this matcless woodman felt ; 
With iron smile and open hand, the Arab part he played, 
Whenever to his greenwood home a wandering footstep strayed, 
Like a good old Texian hunter bold, all of the prairies wild. 

When ruffian war dismay'd the land in Freedom's darkest hour, 

Up rose this single-hearted man to brave the invader's power, 

And sought those battered ramparts where a fated few opposed. 

With stern dispair the impending shock of legions round him 

closed; 

And the stout old Texian hunter burned with feelings strange 

find wild. 



Said he, ''uf hnva and governments I naught can understand; 
But I will light I'or tlie greenwoods of" my adopted land ; 
Thougli I'm a lonely forest man, nor kindred round me knows, 
Yet lor my native tongue and race my blood shall freely flow, 
As a true old Texian liunter ought, who loves his prairies wild. 

One night, while round the Alamo ht'lcaguering thousands lay, 
^Vilh thirty men he through them charged and inward won his 

way. 
Said he, " I'd ho])ed to lay my bones beneath my live-oak tree; 
But now those walls shall prove a nobler tomb for me." 
And the grim old Texian hunter sigtied, "Farewell ye prairies 
wild." 

At dawn, with shout and cannon's peal and charging escalade, 
In pour'd the f\)e, though rank on rank their bravest low were 

laid ; 
'Mid booming shot and bayonets' clang expired that Spartan few; 
And there an hundred, ere they sank, a thousand foeman slew ; 
There the tough old Texian hunter died, no more to roam 

the wild. 

But in the Elysian hunting ground he dwells among the brave, 
Souls of the free of every age who died their land to save ; 
And thousands have, when comes the hour, a fate like his to 

dare, 
For hands and heai'ts as stout and true, hath Texas yet to spare. 
As the brave old Texian hunter bore, all on his prairies wild. 



A SPANISH ODE TO TEXAS. 



NOTE BY THE AUTHOR. 

The following ode, the earliest poem I know of which has 
Texas for its subject, was penned about the beginning of the 
present century by the Right Reverend Diego Marin, a Spanish 
Bishop of Monterey, while on a pastoral tour to the aforesaid 
province, which \\i^x\ belonged to his diocese, The description 



236 Poets and Toetrv ok Texas, 



contained in the original may bo somewhat applicable to certain 
parts of Texas, but lias an air of poetical exaggeration when 
applied to the best known sections ; and this feature may be 
increased in my translation, for I have been unable to preserve 
the simplicity and brevity of the original. If the author ideal- 
ized and grandih)()uiz(ul a little, it must be remembered that he 
was a Spaniard, a })riest and a i)o 't, and if I have not done him 
justice, it is perhai)s as good an excuse that I am neither. 

^iG^AWj Texas, fraught with charms unknown 
"i^lll 'i'*> every land beside, 

'^iJ Ky Nature fairest traits are shown 
In thee, C-rcation's i)ride ; 
As if the latest touch essayed 
J5y llim, whose hand yon planets made. 

Thy region beautified; 
When resting to pronounce it good, 
Complacently this work He viewed. 

I see thy plains of waving green, 

All llower-enameled spread. 
From whence the morning's ruddy beam 

To thence upon them shed — 
It awes my soul as when 1 view. 
The sunnncr sea's expansive blue, 

While ruining winds are dead — 
So calm, so vast, so grand to see 
A type of God's Immensit}'. 

But ere the day-beam meets the eye 

Upon the i)rairie's breast, 
An earlier glowing gilds on high 

The Sierra Madra's crest. 
To him whose feet the cliffs explore. 
Out peeping veins of precious ore 

That region's wealth attest ; 
And grey embowered rocks unfold 
Their specks and winding threads of gold. 

Exulting in their purity 
Thy_countless limpid rillsj 



With joyous bound and gladdening sound, 

Hush from a thousand hills; 
And parting wind with wandering (h)w, 
That with a hlooin like Kdon's glow, 

Tiiat broad wild garden lills 
Where Nature craves no liuuian toil 
To beautify the virgin soil. 

Thou dear enchanting solitude, 

Unknown to grief and pain, 
To woe and want and wrath and blood 

Of mortal steps the train — 
In such an undisturbed al)ode, 
Where war his course hath never rode, 

ITow blest could I remain. 
And hear no sigh, save that alone, 
Which wooes in Zephyr's melting tone. 

My mitre well might I forego, 

Forget the scholar's pride, 
Amid the freshening sweets that grow 

Unprun'd on every side. 
Like man in Eden ere 'twas trod 
By sin, communing with my (Jod. 

In peace would I al)idc, 
Nor envy wearied grandeur's care, 
Nor wisdom's laurels long to share. 



238 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



AMELIA V. PURDY 




RS. PURDY, one of the most voluminous female writers 
of Texas, was born in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, in the 
year 1845. Her maiden name was McCarty. Her pa- 
rents were of English and Irish extraction. At the time of her 
birth her father was in affluent circumstances, but when she was 
four years of age he failed in business. He remained only a 
short time in Pittsburg after this sad occurrence, and soon Avent 
with his family to Cincinnati. Soon he was on the high road 
to prosperity; but through the influence of friends was induced 
to move to Texas. In 1857, he landed at Galveston. He early 
became dissatisfied with his change of latitude, which proved 
every way unfortunate for him. 

Almost from infancy, Mrs. Purdy showed an insatiable desire 
for knowledge. Such was the wonderful facility with which 
she acquired knowledge, that before she had reached her eighth 
year she had become familiarly acquainted with tlie great his- 
torians — Rollin, Gibbon, and Hopkinson— and read, intelli- 
gently, Piutarch^s Lives and French history, and was not un- 
acquainted with the great poets. Her parents possessed more 
than ordinary culture and nice discrimination, and such works 
as they furnished her were those best calculated to strength-en 
and whet and brighten the intellect. Nor did she confine her- 
self merely to the study of history, but cultivated rhetoric, 
divinity, music and poetry, and, indeed, everything that would 
have a tendency to improve and adorn her mind. In her girl- 
hood she read fiction only in the absence of other reading, but 
before her death she considered it the best vehicle to reach the 
popular heart — to instruct and benefit. 

Her first effusion was sent to the Galveston News in 1862. 



r 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 239 



Soon afterwards she began to contribute to the Houston Tele- 
graph. These fragments were well received, and encouraged 
her to nobler efforts. 

In 1868 she was married to Major L. Purdy, at Bryan Texas, 
who was at that time a very prominent business man at that 
place. He soon failed in business, and consumption developed 
rapidly, from which he died December 5th, 1875. After her 
husband's death, care, sorrow and disease, bore heavily upon 
her. Her pen, once only a source of pleasure to relatives and 
friends, became her ansesthetic and all potent to comfort and 
soothe her, even when the storm was at its worst. She prepared 
First Fruits for the press under adverse circumstances — she 
being in feeble health, while her husband was daily losing 
strength. The stormy and turbulent times, while they would 
oppress ordinary powers, were such as only contributed to give 
additional energy to a mind like hers. "Indeed," says Mill, 
"it is evident that such times are more favorable to poetry than 
those which are more quiet and ])eaceful. The Muse catches 
fire and inspiration from the storm, and genius rides upon the 
whirlwind, while, perhaps, it would only slumber during the 
calm." 

Mrs. Purdy is a regular contributor to the Sunny South, a 
popular and widely circulated literary journal. The matter she 
furnished has been humorous articles, stories, poems, and 
serials. 

She was a lady of fine judgment, and promised to win literary 
celebrity. She always had something to say, and said it in a 
very efficient and pleasant style. She learned that there was 
no royal road to success without labor. 

I admire the directness of thought and the naturalness of 
style, the rich abundance of genuine poetic feeling and imagery 
which distinguish Mrs Purdy's writings from any other Texas 
writer. 

Of Mrs. Purdy's ability, Major Lorence says : "Scenes and 
passages of terrific grandeur and the most thrilling agony are 
often mixed with good humor from her pen." 



240 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Mill says : " The life of poets is, if we judge of it from the 
light it lends to others, a golden drama, full of brightness and 
sweetness, wrapt in Elysium ; and it gives one a reluctant pang 
to see the splendid vision by which they are attended in their 
path of glory, fade like vapor, and their sacred heads laid low 
in ashes, before the sands of common mortals have run out." 
This is the common idea of the poet's life, hut with this the 
testimony of Mrs. Purdy does not accord. It is true that her 
early life was quiet and unmarked by any striking incident of 
sorrow, but her later days were draped in gloom. 

Mrs. Purdy was long a resident of Ennis, Texas, where she 
married Dr. Jones, an eminent physician of AVaxahachie. She 
died April 23, 1881, of that fearful disease, consumption. 

Her little volume of poems, First Fruits, lies on my table. I 
have read each line with much care. Her sentiment is good, 
but her rhetoric is bad. While following out her train of poet 
numbers, she forgets her rhetoric, and here she commits her 
gravest fault. She was very much devoted to her children, and 
took views very different from others of her sex, in her poem, 
Filial Piety. This poem is one of her best, though faulty and 
sometimes unintelligible, owing to the redundant isms hinted 
at and really betrayed. 



FILIAL PIETY. 



N Iconoclast, 

And the world's gods are numerous, a fine disgust 
Fills me and nerves me to go forth to hurl 
Them in the dust. 
And this is one, 
This filial pieiy — the corner stone 
Of old Confucius' creed, and rightly understood, 
A pillar of our own. 
But as nine-tenth 



Of the good people do not think — reflect, 

But what tlieir father's taught, receive content. 

Too idle to dissect. 

And hence, 
The popular acceptance and the wrong 
Of this command has made our homes accursed, 

Makes discord all life long. 

For everywhere 
I give you life, declares the parent, and 
This obligation makes you, all your days, 

Mine to command, 

Mine to abuse or pet. 
I brought you in this world, you must love me ; 
What can yon give me worthy the great gift 

I've given to thee ? 

It matters not — 
Whether I work for you or labor not. 
Whether I make you loathe your name and niche 

And curse your lot, 

T gave you life. 
You must forever love and honor me, 
The Bible so commands ; bear that in mind. 

And grateful be ; 

1 am your i)arent — I 
Have done my part e'en if I give you blows. 
Starve you, and curse you — never let you know 

Peace or repose. 

Ah God, I've seen 
This doctrine poison many a home, and make 
The children crushed and bitter — flit away 

To still heart-ache ; 

P'ly forth, or yet 
Half fledg(!d but weary of abuse and care, 
The tomb-like, sunless home, chilled through and through 

With Arctic air. 

And so 'twill be, 
The callow birdling will essay the air, 
Rejoice to leave the old nest set with thorns — 

Live anywhere. 

'J'his (ills the world 
With drifting human leaves — that recklessly 
Let the winds bear them, where the winds may list, 

Over life's stormy sea. 



" I give them food and clothes, 
See that their wants are cared for, that's enough, 
Why should I make myself a quarry slave? — 

My duty ! that's all stuff'." 

fool of fools, 
Know this — your child oives nothing unto yon, 
You never, while you live, can do enough, 

No matter what you do. 

'Tis yours to make his days 
Sweet as a flower— to ward off" pain and care ; 
You last— he first, to make his life with you 

Serene and fair, 

Making his childhood's home 
Beautiful and pleasant, home in fact, as name. 
Ruling him graciously with inner light, 

With wisdom clear of blame. 

That he may afterwards. 
When old and grey, look back, through happy tears, 
To the sweet home that parent love made heaven 

So many years. 

The parent who 
Makes his child's happiness a constant care. 
Works towards this end with steady eyes and hands. 

And daily prayer. 

Shall be repaid 
By seeing noble sons and daughters grace his age. 
Heroes and heroines, with eagle eye and mien, 

'J'o walk life's stage. 

But few, alas ! 
Few parents do their duty — understand 
Wherein it lies, tho' teachers, preachers fill 

And flood the land. 

Go forth and view 
The homes around you, and you then will see 
That " Home, Sweet Home's" a satire, keen and sharp. 

And e'er will be, 

Till parents feel 
The truth of what I sing in simple rhyme, 
That they who oivc so much should hourly pay, 

And pay thro 'out all time. 

I heard a child once say, 
" I know my mother does not care for me. 



She never kisses me nor calls me ' pet,' 

Nor sits me on her knee." 

Coldness is badness — there 
Are many ways to pain a child's pure heart ; 
When parents do their duty crime and man 

Will drift apart. 

In the old days, 
When it was fashionable to be austere, 
The father's coming made the children's hearts 

Grow dumb with fear. 

We know they sat 
Not in their father's presence — gazed on him 
With awe-struck eyes, as tho' they gazed upon 

Dread Seraphim, 

Let this old god be hurled 
Down from its altar, give the child its place, 
And thou shalt find this worship fill the world 

With wondrous grace. 

Let us hear no more 
The duty of the child, for that has been 
Preached since from Sinai Moses brought the Law, 

And the world's foul with sin. 

And mourns the time. 
Oh, ye blind preachers of the world — declare 
In organ-tones what must be done if we 

\Vould have this black world fair. 

Preach no more 
Of the "children in the furnace," we are tired ; 
Preach down the errors of the time in which 

Feet and soul are mired. 

Open your hearers 's eyes ; 
Each day you preach teach something that will do 
Lasting good ; let each one leave the church 

Taught sometliing new. 

How oft we hear 
The idle, senseless, vapid woman say, 
"Cliildren are only torments, how 1 wish 

I had no children today." 

Only a torment — charge 
And kill — ^^joy thinking thus — I here declare, 
That this is why infanticide and crime 

Reign everywhere. 

Why is it bliss, 



244 Poets and Poetry op Texas. 



Passing all language to express, to know 
That an immortal has been given to you, 

With soul like snow, 

A little angel child, 
With tiny dimpled hands so warm and white, 
Eyes full of innocence and deep content. 

As stars of light. 

Who does not feel, 
When those soft dimpled arms enclasp the neck, 
A deep delicious sense of purity 

Sans any Heck. 

Is bad, all bad. 
Woe unto ye, oh women, who disdain. 
And murder these, that ye may dress and dance, 

For ye shall dance in pain. 



VOCATION. 



|ACH child born has Nature gifted 
With a talent ; parents pause, 

Solve the problem of this dowry 
In accordance with her laws. 

Find the path, then lead the tyro, 
Set him right and all is well ; 

lie who finds his true vocation 
Lives to prosper and excel. 

Not one Poet, past or present, 
Not one man that's made a name 

On the shining scrolls of glory, 
But has urged a rightful claim. 

To such honor urged and won it. 
By the use of Nature's dower, 

While perversion floods the country 
With the feeblest mental power. 



Hence arise the shallow legions, 
Which we view in sheer distress ; 

Doctors, lawy(!rs, rnorchants, preachers, 
Each one reckoning less and less. 

What the bent is thither guide it, 
^ Then shall Earth have greater lights ; 
Fewer men with sounding titles, 
And with minds like Arctic nights. 




W. H. RHODES. 



erf 



OME of my readers will feel as if confronted by the 
spirit of the departed when they read the name at the 
head of this sketch. Many of them have long ngo for- 
gotten the stripling boy whose name was so familiar to them 
during the early days of Texas. Not only was he familiar to 
the readers in Texas, but throughout the United States. Dur- 
ing this period he wrote and published a great many poems. 
Some of his best and earliest were published in the Southern 
Literary Messenger. The first poem by him I ever read was 
published in this journal. It pleased me, for I discovered in it 
new beauties. I felt that, whoever the author might be, he was 
a poet. There was a something fascinating about it that startled 
me, and caused my youthful brain to stagger. But imagine my 
surprise and pleasure, when I discovered the author to be a 
resident of Texas. I was but a boy; he a man; yet the beauty 
of that poem haunts me still. I can only recall these lines of 
the poem, which were written soon after the death of his 
mother : — 

In a moment of great sadness 

I tripped adown the street of Gladness — 

My heart was weary, 

It pained me so — 

William Henry Rhodes was born in Windsor, North Carolina, 
July 16, 1822. In 1844, his father, Col. E. A. Rhodes, was ap- 
pointed United States Consul to Texas. William Henry was 
then just budding into manhood. Possessing a great ambition, 
and a mind superior to his companions, he became a leader 
among the young men of Galveston, where his father was lo- 
cated in his office as Consul. Here he gathered arovuvd hiui an 




WM. H. RHODES. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 247 



association of young men, whose zealous natures were congen- 
ial to his lofty ambition. 

In 1844, he entered Harvard law school, where he remained 
for two years. Here, as a home, he was a master-spirit and a 
leader. He was a great favorite of his instructors and noted 
for his studious and exemplary habits, while his genial and 
courteous manners won the lasting friendslnj) of his classmates 
and companions. After he completed his study at Harvard he 
returned to Galveston, where he entered upon the practice of 
his profession. He was measurably successful in it, and won 
many friends by his gallant and chivalrous advocacy of the 
causes intrusted to him. He was personally very jiopular, and 
in 1847 was elevated to a Probate Judgeship. He filled this 
office with distinction for one term, at the close of which he re- 
turned to his native state and entered upon the practice of his 
profession. Ho remained there but a short time when he 
caught the inspiration of adventure in the new El Dorado, and 
sailed for California. He continued to the time of his death a 
citizen of that state. Here he became widely known and re- 
spected by all with whom he was brought into contact. He 
practiced his profession in a disjointed way, continuing to write 
both prose and poetry. 

While*a resident of Galveston he published a volume entitled 
Indian Gallows and Other Poems. It also contained a play 
called Theodosin. The heroine being the daughter of Aaron 
Burr who married Allston, of South Carolina. The story runs 
that she was lost on a vessel sailing North, and that she was 
captured by the pirate, Lafitte. 1 have never seen a copy of 
this book — it is long ago out of print — but have a vivid recol- 
lection of having read notices of it in the newspapers long after 
the book had been forgotten by most men. Soon after his 
death in San Francisco, his essays, poems, tales, and sketches 
were collected and published in a large volume, bearing the 
title Caxton^s Book. It bears the imprint of A, L. Bancroft and 
Company. It is edited by Daniel O'Connell, and contains ^ 



brief memoir of Mr. Rhodes written by W. H. L, Burnes. 
From this memoir I have drawn largely my material for this 
sketch. 

In 1852, Mr. Rhodes visited his childhood home in North 
Carolina. In a sketch of his, entitled The Deserted Sclwolhouse^ 
he gives the following account of his visit to the village of 
Woodville, where his earliest school days were passed : — 

" Woodville was the scene of my first studies, my earliest 
adventures, and my nascent love. There I was taught to read 
and write, to swim and to skate, to wrestle and box, to play 
marbles and make love. There I fought my first fight, had the 
mumps and the measles, stole my first watermelon, and re- 
ceived my first flogging. And I can never forget, that within 
that tattered schoolroom my young heart first swelled with 
those budding passions, whose full development in others have 
so often changed the fortunes of the world. There eloquence 
produced its first throb, ambition struck it first spark, pride 
mounted its first stilts, love felt its first glow. There the eter- 
nal ideas of God and heaven, of patriotism and country, of 
love and woman, germinated in my bosom; and there, too, 
Poesy sang her first song in my enchanted ear, lured me far off 
into the ' grand old woods' alone, sported with the unlanguaged 
longings of my boyish heart, and subdued me for the first time 
with that mysterious sorrow, whose depths the loftiest intellect 
cannot sound, and yet whose wailings mournfully agitate many 
a schoolboy's breast." 

This visit was made after an absence of twenty-two years. 

As a writer of short sketches and romances, Mr. Rhodes is 
equalled only by Poe and Arrington. With the latter he was 
intimate, both having traveled over the same scenes in Texas 
together. Both lawyers and both poets of acknowledged genius, 
their lives are similar, and their minds moulded after the same 
fashion. It is strange to note how they worked together in 
absolute unconsciousness of their joint mission. The story of 
their lives is so interwoven with the romantic and weird, that 



Poets and Poetry of Tkxas. 249 



you can scarcely disconnect it from the mythical. So far as per- 
tains to their success in a monetary sense, they were twin 
brothers. Born in the same State, drinking from the same per- 
ennial fountain, and inspired by the same scenes, their lives 
stand out incomparably the most romantic in the history of our 
State. Covering the same field of thought, occupying peculiar 
stations in life, the romantic history of their successes, their 
trials, and their labors, fill a page in that volume in which the 
names of few indeed are inscribed. 

Col. A. M. Hobby wrote : " There are few men who possess 
that rare commodity genius as do Poe and Arrington. Their 
lives and works are alike illustrative of what genius really is." 
Add the name of Rhodes, and you have a trio towering like the 
mountain heights. There is a curious symbolism in these 
three names, and never since literature began have such strange 
characters occupied the same stage, traveled the same field of 
romance, and embodied in their writings such kindred charac- 
teristics. The fame of Poe is greater, but his career no more 
marvelous, nor his labor more enduring. Poe has never given 
to the world anything that will live longer in the minds of the 
people than Suiiimerjield''s Case. Nothing can be more fascinat- 
ing or more musical than Rhodes' way of telling a tale. I 
speak of him as a romancer, and in this lies his greatest abil- 
ity, though his })oems are productions of rare power. Few in 
our country have written with more fire, greater fervor or more 
individuality. He wrote upon all kinds of subjects with that 
wit and ready command of language which few possess. His 
intellect was acute and cultured; his imagination full to over- 
flowing, with a style as clear and distinct as it is beautiful and 
varied. 

The circumstances of his death are highly tragical. He was 
awakened at night by a burglar in his room, whom he attemp- 
ted to capture. The bed room of Cjuite a family of children 
opened into the bed room of him and his wife. A fight ensued 
between him and the burglar in the dark. His wife and 



children rushed around them screaming and terrified. The 
burghir had a knife, and cut and gashed him very severely, 
though perhaps not fatally, but the horrors of the midnight en- 
counter in total darkness, amid the terrors of his wife and 
children, left him bereft of reason, and he died more from the 
nervous attack than from his wounds. 

The poems presented here are not Mr. Rhodes' best poems. 
They are his best short poems. The long ones are narrative, 
and I cannot extract from them without impairing their beauty 
and doing great injustice to the author. 

THIt; LOVE KNOT. 



^]| PON my bosom lies 

A knot of blue and gray ; 
You ask me why tears fill my eyes 
As low to you I say : 

** I had two brothers once. 

Warm hearted, bold and gay ; 
They left my side — one wore the blue, 

The other wore the gray. 

One rode with " Stonewall " and his men, 

And joined his fate with Lee ; 
The other followed Sherman's march, 

Triumphant to the sea. 

Both fought for what they deemed the right, 

And died with sword in hand ; 
One sleeps amid Virginia's hills, 

And one in Georgia's land. 

Why should one's dust be consecrate, 
The other's spurned with scorn — 

Both victims of a common fate. 
Twins cradled, bred and born? 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 251 



01)! tell me not — a patriot one, 

A traitor vile the other; 
John was my mother's favorite son, 

But Eddie was my brother. 

The same sun shines al>ove,.their graves. 
My love unchanged must stay — 

And so njion my bosom lies 
Love's knot of blue and gray." 



POLLOCK'S EUTHANASIA. 



^?[i|^E is gone ! the young, and gifted ! 
^ijO By his own strong pinions lifted 

hJ^ To the stars ; 

Where he strikes, with minstrels olden, 
Choral harps, whose strings are golden, 
Deathless bars. 

There, with Homer's ghost all hoary, 
Not with years, but fadeless glory, 

Lo ! he stands ; 

And through that open portal. 
We behold the bards immortal 

Clasping hands ! 

Hark ! how Rome's great epic master 
Sings, that death is no disaster 

To the wise ; 

Fame on earth is but a menial. 
But it reigns a king perennial 

In the skies ! 

Albion's blind old bard heroic, 
Statesman, sage, and Christian stoic, 
Greets his son ; 



252 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Whilst in pteans wild and glorious, 
Like his "Paradise victorious," 

Sings, Well done ! 

Lo ! a bard' with forehead pendent, 
But with glory's beams resplendent 
As a star ; 

Slow descends from regions higher, 
Wit'i a crown and golden lyre 

In his car. 

All around him, crowd as minions, 
Thrones and sceptres, and dominions, 

Kings and Queens ; 

Ages past and ages present, 
Lord and dame, and jjrince and peasant. 
His demesnes ! 

Approach ! young bard hesperian. 
Welcome to the heights empyrean, 

Thou did'st sing. 

Ere yet thy trembling fingers 
Struck where fame immortal lingers, 
In the string. 

Kneel ! I am the bard of Avon, 
And the Realm of song in Heaven 
Is my own ; 

Long thy verse shall live in story. 
And thy Lyre I crown with glory. 

And a throne ! 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



253 



A CAKE OF SOAP. 



^•ff STOOD at my washstand, one bright, sunny morn, 
fj!| And gazed through the blinds at the up-springing corn, 
'r And mourn'd that my summers were passing away, 
Like the dew on the meadow that morning in May. 

I seized, for an instant, the Iris-hued soap, 
That glowed in the dish, like an emblem of hope. 
And said to myself, as I melted it.s snows, 
" The longer I use it, the lesser it grows." 

For life, in its morn, is full freighted and gay. 
And fair as the rainbow when clouds float away ; 
Sweet-scented and useful, it sheds its perfume. 
Till wasted or blasted, it melts in the tomb. 

Thus day after day, whilst we lather and scrub. 
Time \yasteth and blasteth with many a rub, 
Till thinner and thinner, the soap wears away, 
And age hands us over to dust and decay. 

Oh, Bessie ! dear Bess! as I dream of thee now, 
With the spice in thy breath, and the bloom in thy brow, 
To a cake of pure Lubin thy life I compare, 
So fragrant, so fragile, and so debonair ! 

But fortune was fickle, and labor, was vain. 
And want overtook us, with grief in its train. 
Till, worn out by troubles, death came in the blast ; 
But thy kisses, like Lubin's, were sweet to the last. 



E. A. RHODES. 



DWARD ABESETTE RHODES, half brother of W. H. 
Rhodes, was born in CJalveston on the 15th of June, 1841. 
He was a cadet from California in the Military Institute 
at Lexington, Ky. He entered the Confederate army at the 
commencement of the war, and was killed at Gettysburg, July 
1, 18G3, being Lieutenant and Adjutant of the 11th North Caro- 
lina (Bethel) Rrgimont. 

He i)ossessed a brilliant intellect, and had he lived would 
have distinguished himself as a writer of both prose and poetry. 
The following lines were written by him on a ])ane of glass in 
a window of his bed room on the morning of the death of his 
father, May 24, 1858: — 

The lines which on this pane T write, 
Though gently touched with diamond bright, 
May last through Time's eternal flight. 
Thus sorrow's piercing point may trace 
A line of woe upon the face, 
Which time itself cannot erace. 






r 



J-. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 265 



ROBERT H. RHODES. 



OBERT H. RHODES, a younger brother of W. H. and 
Edward A. Rhodes, was born in Galveston May 18, 1845. 
He also entered the Southern army from California, and 
was taken prisoner twice. He possessed a talent for writing 
both prose and poetry. Shortly before his death from con- 
sumption, in 1874, he wrote the following lines, the last he 
ever penned : — 

^-AREWELL, life ! my pulses thrill 
In the grasp of giant Death, 
Heavier is the labored breath, 
' Keener airs the senses chill. 

Press, oh, press thy lips to mine, 

That at last my soul may be, 

E're it pass beyond the sea. 
Thrilled by one fond kiss of thine. 

When the otlier shore is won. 

Crowded with its silent ships, 

With thy kisses on my lips 
I shall know a Heaven begun. 

This and the following poems are all I am able to present of 
his. They were written when he was a young man, just grown 
to manhood. They show genuine sentiment: 

PR A YER. 



'HE thronging town is silent, 

Still is the busy street. 
That all day long has echoed 
The sound of restless feet. 



258 



Poets and Poetry of Texas, 



No sound breaks into the stillness, 
That folds the day like a shroud, 

And into my brain, and over my soul, 
A host of fancies crowd. 

"Oh for the light of wisdom ! 

Oh for the vision bold ! 
To pierce beyond the valley 

That the waters of death enfold." 

Breaking through the stillness 
And out in the startled air? 

Comes from across the little street 
An answer to my prayer. 

Calm and unutterable, 

Upon my soul it fell, 
As I heard a voice from Heaven speak 

In the tolling of the bell: 

"Come ye that are heavy laden, 
Here all your burdens bear, 

And lay them at the feet of Him 
Who's quick to answer prayer." 



UNDER THE CACTUS. 



NDER the Cactus, soft and low. 
With many a dimple and quiver, 
"■ From a quiet nook the babbling brook 
Sweeps down to the swelling river. 

Beneath the light of a tender moon. 

The silvery tide caresses 
The bare, brown feet of a maiden sweet, 

And laves the floating tresses. 

A footfall steals down the hidden path, 
" Say, Sweet, have I come too soon?" 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 257 



And love is confess'd, and lips are pressed, 
'Neath the light of a tender moon. 



Under the Cactus the forked spears 
Keep guard o'er a solemn mound, 

And a watcher stands with folded hands, 
And looks upon the ground. 

"Ah! faithful Sentinel, guard her well, 
And keep this spot from harm. 

For naught can I do but leave her to you, 
To the strength of thy barbed arm." 



LA MADRE DE LA CANYON. 



[At about the center of Temacula Canyon, in Southern Cali- 
fornia, and three hundred feet above the bed of the river, there 
stands out in bold relief upon the mountain side, the perfect 
figure of a woman. A loose robe falls to her feet, one arm is 
crossed over her left breast, while the other points upward.] 

virOR many a weary day my perplexed soul 
/ijlf Had blindly sought to know the right; 
"^-^i Still nearer waves of doubting roll. 

And hide the rock of faith from sight. 
Despairingly I heard a knell. 

And Faith and Hope bade me adieu ; 
Then thick and fast the shadows fell. 

And veiled the face of Heaven from view. 



I heard the flow of water in the sand ; 
Upon its shifting banks my feet were pressed ; 
While rising upward, near my hand, 
The mountain reared its giant crest. 



And lo ! upon its rocky side, I saw 
Unmoved, and still, and sternly fair, 
With hand u})raised to Heaven afar, 
A woman's face, and ibrm, and hair. 
And while I stood, with 'hated breath, 
I seemed to see the cold lips move ; 
"That, mortal, which thou callest death 
"Is but the perfectness of love. 
"And wlien thine earthly course is done, 
"Thy 'raptured eyes with jo}'- shall see 
"The Gates of Ileavcm in triumph won 
"And wake to immortality. 
"Behold! around, on every hand, 
"The Tkuth still shines with patient ray, 
"And all created things do stand 
" lJnchang(Kl, to })()iutthe way. 
"He dazzled not by Reason's glow, 
"lUit cling to an unfaltering trust 
"That at the last tliou may'st know, 
"Man is weak, but (U)i) is just." 



--^ 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



259 



JOHN M. RICHARDSON 



C|^HE life of Col. llichardson has been a very busy one, and 
^J consequently one of intellectual advancement. He is one 
♦ of a line of a distinguished family who has been conspic- 
uous in private and public life since the American War of In- 
dependence. His paternal grandfather, llichardson, was a 
Captain in the Continental Line during the Revolutionary War; 
and his paternal grandfather, Buford, belonged to Marion's 
Partisan Corps, during the same period. He is of English and 
Huguenot-French blood. He was born in South Carolina, 
March 13th, 1831, and is the youngest of tiftecn children. Sev- 
eral of his family have occupied high ollicial positions; his 
uncle, J. S, Puchardson, was for a long time on the bench of 
South Carolina. One of his brothers, James S. G. Richardson, 
was, at one time, State Reporter. 

Col. Richardson is said to be a polished scholar, having grad- 
uated from South Carolina Military Academy, the University 
of Virginia, and Harvard University. He was graduated from 
the latter University, taking the degree of Bachelor of Science, 
July 19, 1854. Soon after liis graduation from Harvard, he 
went to Georgia, and began teaching. He married there, June 
14th, 1855. In 1860, he was elected Professor in Hillsboro 
Military Academy, Hillsboro, South Carolina. The war com- 
ing on, he resigned his place in the Academy and joined the 
Confederate service, July 3d, 1801, and participated in the first 
battle of Manassas. In 1862, from exposure to rain and cold, 
he was compelled to leave the army, having been attacked with 
rheumatism. He did not remain idle, but took a position in 
the Georgia Military Institute, at Marietta. In 1863, he was 
elected Professor of Mathematics in the University of Ala- 



200 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



bama, but declined, and accepted an appointment on the general 
staff of the Confederate Army, and returned to battle in the 
latter part of 1863. In the battle of Winchester, September 
19th, 1864, he lost a leg. He returned to Georgia and began 
teaching, and taught in that State until 1876, when he came to 
Texas, and located in Sulphur Springs. He taught there and 
at Leesburg till January, 1885, when he moved to Pittsburg, 
where he still resides. 

He has writter a great deal of a miscellaneous nature. What 
he has written is marked with the spirit of conservatism. lie 
makes no claims to poetic fame, but his quiet, unobtrusive work 
deserves recognition. 

THE WHISKY FIEND. 



tHE Devil one morning arose in a rage, 
I And vowed that each city should be a vile cage — 
"^ A cage of uncleanness, hate, malice, and strife, 
Where cursing and murder shouhl ever be rife. 

" 'Twas God made the country, but I made the town. 
I'll fill it with vices, pollutions — and drown 
What little of virtue man's vain soul has left, 
Since him of his Eden and Ciod, I bereft. 

''The pool I will open shall spread far and wide, 
And o'erflovv the country with its turbid tide. 
Of earth I would make, in despite, a vast hell. 
With ev'ry pollution to seethe and to swell." 

So he put up a whisky-shop, right on the square, 
To deal out damnation to all who go there ; 
And those passing by he would call and invite 
To enter his parlors, by day and by night. 

To rope in his victims, the men and the boys. 
He garnished his hell-traps with many decoys — 



tmrar- a 




With billiards, and pictures, and dicing, and cards,— 
With music, and dancing, and flowery yards. 

" Just walk 'round my green blinds, and see how I'm fixed ; 
INly parlors are furnished, my li(|Uors are mixed; 
Look there, at that picture ; "'twill kindle the fires 
Of slumbering passion and Venus desires. 

" Come now to the counter and get you a drink ; 
'Twill banish your cares, nor allow you to think. 
A fig for your scruples of silly [)ropriety. 
Drink ]il('asure's full bowl toyour perfect satiety. 

" Now, won't you play something? Cards, billiards, or dice? 
Walk in ; never hesitate; never tliink tvviee. 
Your fortune try boldly ; faint heart never won 
Fair lady, or riches, beneath the bright sun. 

" Have you lost? Never mind! Next time better luck. 
Go out in the garden and look for your duck. 
That picture — I see you remember it well. 
Let music strike up with voluptuous swell ! 

" Ha! ha! Now I have him ! Wife, mother, look out I 
Wine, dicing and sirens have fenced him about! 
A cloud of i)ollution stands 'twixt him and you ! 
To home— life's pure pleasure, lie's bidden adieu. 

" His soul and his body belong all to me ! 
For here, from his conscience, for refuge he'il flee ! 
I'll drug him, and pluck him, and squeeze him till dry, 
Then kick him out, hopeless, to curse God and die ! 

"His children, I'll beggar; his wife's heart, I'll break, 
And drive them to curses, their vile bread to make, 
That high on hell's gate-posts their names deep will carve ! 
They'd better, with virtue, in poverty starve ! 

" 'Tis thus I would have it all over the land ! 

My mark on each forehead, deep scarred, I would brand ! 

In hatred to God, I would make man forlorn ; 

Then mock them, and jeer them, and laugh them to scorn !" 



•f"^ 



2G2 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



IIo! daughters and sisters ! Ho! mothers and wives ! 
Your loved ones are staking and hosing their lives ! 
Tlie cess-pools of Satan are right at your gate ! 
Awake from your lethargy, ere its too late ! 

Sons, hushands, and brothers, save <]uick from the foe ! 
Oh! keep them from contact with that overflow 
Whose liquid pollution damns body and soul, 
By drowning the senses in vile pleasure's bowl ! 

Oh, strike down the whisky fiend, banish it far ! 
Its temples destroy, and its juggernaut car! 
The makers and victims of liquid hell-fire, 
And dealers, all pra}^ you to help them up higher ; 

To take their feet out of the miry clay ; 

From dens of Acrasia to lead them away ; 

To cleanse them, and clothe them, and help them to find 

Return to their kinship with God and mankind 1 

Arise in the God-given strength of love's pray'r ! 
Arise in the courage that will not despair ! 
Arise in the might of such courage and strength, 
And cleanse our fair land, in its breadth and its length I 

So shall the race bless you ! And ever shall rise 
The incense of pray'r, all unmixed with sin's cries ! 
So heaven descending to earth shall remain, 
And God from His children depart ne'er again ! 



Tiri; PRAYER OF MARY, QUEEN OF 
SOOTS. 



" O Domiue Deus, 
Speravi in Te ! 



HOLY and Just God, 
My hope is in Thee ! 
Jesus, Thou Strong Rod, 
lean upon^Thee! 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



2G3 



My body with chains bound, 
My spirit in pains foiuid, 
None love I but Thee ! 
Knees bending, eyes blending, 
Heart rending, soul wending ; 
Adoring, 
Im])loring, 
Now take me to Thee ! 



± 



264 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MISS ROBINSON. 




ISS WILLIE BLANCHE ROBINSON, one of theyoung- 
est of the Texas poets whom I have under consideration, 
was born in March, 1857, at which time her father, 
Major B. F. Robinson, was Indian Agent, and located with his 
family in Southern Kansas. She belongs to a dignified and 
genteel family of English-Scotch descent, being granddaughter 
of Gerard Robinson, an officer of the British Navy, and who 
married a Miss Menteith, of the ancient house of that name. 
She is also a maternal descendant of Thomas Marshall, father 
of John Marshall, long Chief Justice of the United States ; 
also of the well known Gen. Humphrey Marshall, of Kentucky, 
whose daughter. Miss Nellie, has written of passion-life, earn- 
est, intense, and full of pathos and heroism. 

Willie learned to read and write at an unusually early age, 
and at eight, it is said that she read understandingly the works 
of Shakespeare. "A wonder of the times," says Boyle "for I 
have lisped in Shakespearean numbers for nearly a half cen- 
tury, and yet cannot comprehend much in him." 

She was not long contented in mere rhyme, but actually aban- 
doned the lighter songs of her Muse, and boldly struck her lyre 
to the noble strains of the heroic and sublime, and attempted 
an imitation of Shakespeare's Tragedies, for 

" She felt the fire that in her glowed." 

Some of her poems, composed at a very early age, were pub- 
lished in the Kansas City Journal, under the assumed name of 
" Persia." They received much attention at that time. She 
is not a native Texan, but the greater part of her life has been 
passed here. For the past twelve years she has resided with 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



265 



her parents, near Dallas. Most of this time she has been en- 
gaged in teaching. 

Hon. John Henry Brown says of Miss Robinson : " She is 
author of many beautiful poems. She is young and hand- 
some, with a countenance beaming with intelligence and the 
milk of human kindness. Had it not been for Dame Fortune, 
her name today would have been known to the reading people 
of Texas." 

She is full of sympathy for the Southland, and did not hesi- 
tate to express herself when that great and good man, Jefferson 
Davis, visited Texas. Her poem, Texas to Jefferson Davis, which 
I give, was inspired by Mr. Davis' visit here about a dozen years 
ago. I have never seen this poem in print, but think it worthy 
of preserving. 

TEXAS TO JEFFERSON DA VIS. 



A WELCOME. 



AIL to you ! 
To you who come not 'mid the mighty tread 
Of conquering armies, but with noble crown 

Of principle, upon your honored head. 

You have no power to fill men's hearts with fear, 

No nation waiting at your touch to move, 

But better far than this, 'tis left to you 

To thrill a noble people's heart with love. 

They love you for the memory of those days. 

Whose glory still their hearts, a-hungered, feeds ; 

They love you for the memory of your deeds ; 

They love you for the grandeur of your face. 

Where sorrows and wrecked hopes have left their trace. 

Hail to you ! 
You who are mighty in your fallen state ; 
From the immensity of my wide lands, 
I lift my voice up to call you great. 



18 



I from my prairies blossoming forth swoet, 
Do give my flowery treasures unto you, 
My eager children cast them at your feet — 
Small recompense to one so brave and true, 
But could I stand the mistress of the airs, 
On ev'ry hill that roars, on ev'ry plain, 
A grand orchestra of my winds I'd raise, 
That to the very stars would lift your praise. 

Hail to you ! 
You who bring us with your presence dear. 
The memories of the many battles fought ; 
The memories of the time when void of fear, 
I and my sisters gave you our young throne, 
When all the hills shook with our battle cry. 
And on the winds our young flag was out-blown ; 
And memories sad of tinies, when all the lands. 
Were wet with tears, and solemn cries of pain, 
Went up like that from Rama long ago, 
When Rachel wept above her children slain ; 
But brave, kind heart your tears were shed for us ! 

Hail to you ! 
Oh faithful master of a brave, young host ! 
A memory holds all Southern hearts to you, 
The memory of the noble cause they lost; 
For this they beat with love for you, for aye, 
For this your laurel wreath is ever bright, 
Amid so many crowns of withering bays. 
And oh, may He the Master of all lands. 
Give peace to you, and multiply your days, 
And far off" years shall keep your memory — white ! 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 267 




r*5S^ 



VICTOR M. ROSE. 

R. ROSE is a notable instance of an author who, with- 
, out neglecting Lis duties as editor and citizen, has a 
warm place in the literary history of his State. He has 
made his mark in various branches of literature and journalism, 
and is an untiring worker. 

He was born in Victoria, Texas, and served in Ross' Texas 
Brigade during the war between the States. He was admitted 
to the bar in 1870, but has spent most of his life as editor, and 
is at this time connected with the Daily Times, Laredo. 
He has written : — 

1. Lo3 Despenadores, a Spanish Story in verse, — in one vol- 
ume. 

2. jRoss' Brigade, — in one volume. 

3. The Texas Vendetta. 

4. Demara, the Comanche Queen; and Other Rhymes. Pub- 
lished by Little & Co., New York. This is a neatly printed 
volume of about one hundred pages. 

5. History of Victoria County. This is his last publication, 
but he has in press two volumes, which will be issued soon, one 
a Life of General Ben McCulloch, the other, a poem— ^ Legend 

of Dixie. 

I have seen but one of Mr. Rose's books — Demara, the Co- 
mache Queen; and Other Rhymes. It is made up largely of lyrics 
and sonnets. Demara, for which the book is called, is a poem 
of twenty-eight stanzas of eight lines each. It is too long to 
include in this collection. To make extracts from it would not 
do the poem or the author justice; so I have selected two of 
Mr. Rose's minor poems illustrative of his style. 

The followingpoem—Dea«/i-— according to the author, "being 
some unconnected thoughts in regard to the undestructibility of 
matter," is dedicated to A. P. Hope, of Marshall, Texas:— 



2G8 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



•^^^HERE is no death, O transitory man, 
«1| /Contained in all Dame Nature's perfect plan ; 
^:^This tenement, of dust create, may go 
Rotting back to its kindred dust, and so 
With dissolution's sad, expiring sigh, 
The jeweled spirit seeks its native sky ; 
Thy frame, like some old ghostly household stands, 
Where mortmain's tenure holds the ancient lands. 
Or, decomposing on the ambient air, 
Sends zephyr-ships deep-freighted everywhere, 
That countless transmigrating spirits range. 
Like commerce carries o'er the ttags of 'change ; 
Thus round and round the endless circle move, 
(As boundless is God's own infinite love). 
The myriad effects produced by cause. 
Ceaseless creations under Nature's laws ; 
Thus, genial Spring, but smiling, comes to greet 
The flowers gemmed by dew, and laden sweet. 
Each of earth's atoms form'd by will divine. 
That decked ere this, perchance, the Delphic shrine ; 
Each animated by a single ray 
Of light and life, from the "Eiernal Day." 
Behold the pupa in its prison's womb, 
A noxious grub, disgusting to our sight, 
Which soon assumes the gorgeous hues of light, 
Blended prismatic colors of the sky, 
Uniting all to deck a butterfly ; 
Thus a Samian, with deep learning fraught, 
Of the mystic metempsychosis taught. 
And so, he of the "Silver Veil" once dared 
To claim the attributes that Jesus shared 
In part with Moses and the other few. 
Who the awful councils of Jehovah knew. 
And thus fair Livia, of a later day. 
When her brave lover, in a distant fray, 
Fell, with sword in hand, where wildest battle waves, 
Strewed wrecks of life on life in soldier graves, 
Turned in dejection from the severed tie, 
With heart forever crushed, but tearful eye, 
To wander from the haunts of all her kind. 
And seek in solitude for peace, and find 
Nepenthe, self-consuming though it be, 
Oblivious to all unto eternity. 



r 



His bloody manes a shrine the wildwood tuck, 

And thither she to tlie remotest nook, 

A vested virgin robbed of reason lied, 

To pledg(! her troth again with the ininK)rtiil dead. 

Ah, who can say that reason ever pidos ; 

That the vital sparks of life <dernal fails? 

We lose yon sun with his departing ray, 

l)Ut soon again he lights another day. 

And when, amid the final wreck of sjiheres, 

When destruction tri^ads chaotic o'er the years, 

And darkness hangs a funeral pall above 

The silent, sleeping all of eartli we love — 

The "Sun of Glory," with resplendent ray, 

Shall rise to light a never-ending day. 

Ministering then, as was her wont, one; morn, 

The tearless maiden stood with looks forlorn ; 

ll(u- glossy tresses caught the morning light, 

Wiiich ])aled before her brow of Parian white, 

Her hands were clasped, and far ab(jve the skies 

Slie poured her spirit through her aching eyes, 

And poured forth her weary soul in frenzied prayer, 

'I'hough ashen lips pure as the mountain air : 

"O queen of heaven !" her holhnv voice pronounced, 

And soon the rustling of unseen wings announced 

H(;r prayer was heard. " Now but a little wdiile," 

She said, as broke o'er her lips a joyous smile, 

"And fairy hands will spread our nuj)tual couch, 

And angels will my constancy avouch." 

She feels the death damp settling on her brow, 

She welcomes death — her prayers are answered now ; 

For Juno, waiting on the parting breath, 

Sai<l : " Man's true, only hai)piness is death," 

"i'liey sought that eve with anxious feet in vain, 

The tru(!st maiden of the lorn refrain ; 

They shouted the name of Livia o'er and o'er, 

]Uit echo answered back mockingly, no more. 

liut where she stood so long in earnest prayer, 

^J'luiy found a snow-whit(! lily blooming there; 

They said its stem had all her matchless grace, 

The petals cold and white as her pale face ; 

So sweet, so innocent, it blushing stood, 

That all with sorrow-laden footsteps left the wood. 



270 PoF.TS AND Poetry op Texas. 

But, hark! — what preparation sounds on high, 
Where Juno holds her court above the sky ! 
What music sounds to ravished mortal's ears 
Like ^olian murmurs down the aisle of spheres ! 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^l; ^ ^ :}; ^ 

The lines that follow also appeared in Demara : 

DREAM OF JOHN D. LEE. 



#SAD reality, to wake 
When rapturous visions teem 
i Like troops of fairies through our dream, 
And the sweet illusion break ! 

Last night, metbought, in manly pride, 
Life's current flowed with heaving tide, 
And Hope smiled like a waiting bride, 

Witb sweet promise in her eye. 
The Prophet's will on earth be done ! 
The triune Father, Ghost, and Son, 
The one in three, and three in one, 

Wills the gentle crew shall die ! 

Where valle}' grasses softly wave. 
Beneath the mountains hoar and grave, 
While in the shade or waters lave 

The weary strangers all. 

Mountain pass gives back the call, 
'J'o each avenger from his cave, 
Danite trusty, and Indian brave, 
The cause of Mormon true to save, 

Or in the attempt to fall. 
Like spectres gliding through the night, 
Shadowy outlines greet the sight. 
Of phnntom forms from left to right. 

Passing toward the mountain mead ; 
From white man's hut and Indian camp, 
They come with noisless, eager tramp. 

Converging from the deed. 



O, had they stayed their footsteps here, 
Nor entered on the smiling plain, 
My life would not have been in vain. 

No terrors haunt me year by year ! 

But I was hapi>y in my dream, 
For all things then to me did seem 

Approved by heaven and man. 
Time limits law to all who do 
Not their murderous hands imbrue 
With blood. But oh, alas ! how few 
Of the man-slaying thousands can 
Flee Justice, with her perfect plan ? 

Down to the " Mountain Meadow," past 
The silent host, with footsteps fast, 
And not until arrived the last, 

And the dread circle was complete 
Around the silent, slumbering host, 
Which had no sentry on his post. 
Was the signal given, and lost 

'Mid shrieks of anguish wild replete. 
As half awakened " pale face " met 
Painted savage, who had whet 
His passion and his knife, to let 

Vengeance glut with blood its might ; 
Or, when frenzied mothers gave 
Up their lives in hope to save 

Their offspring, on that dreadful night. 
But short the cries of lessening breath — 
Silence reigned o'er the scene of death. 

Dawned the morning mild and bright, 
But never has high heaven's light 
Shone on such a sickening sight 

As " Mountain Meadow Massacre !" 
For death that night full license sent. 
And youth, and age, and childhood lent 
Corse on corse, in confusion blent. 

To form the graveless sepulchre. 



272 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



I dreamed that, 'neath the church's wing, 
No power on earth could ever bring 
01" justice or remorse a sting, 

To a bishop of Brigham Young. 
But two decades have ])nssed away, 
And with them gone of hope all ray; 
While for twenty years, day by day, 

Remorse has at my heart-strings wrung. 
Tlirice welcome then to me is death ; 
What matter hmv my parting breath 

Shall l)arter earth for 'tother lot? 
Yet, as the choice is mine Ijy law. 
Not cruel axe, nor hempen draw, 

But wing me death by rifle shot ! 






- 




HORACE ROWE. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 273 



HORACE ROWE. 



Jl GRACE ROWE was born April 15, 1852, He was a son of 
Dr. Joseph Rowe, who was Speaker of the Second Con- 
gress of Texas when it was a Republic. His mother's 
name was Emily Van Zandt, sister of the Hon. Isaac Van 
Zandt, Minister to the United States during Houston's second 
administration, and whose death occurred very suddenly at 
Houston, while a candidate for Governor against Geo. T. Wood, 
in 1847. 

Mr. Rowe's birth-place is on the banks of the Colorado river, 
in Travis county, six miles below the city of Austin. Before 
he had reached his fourteenth birth-day, his parents were 
called from earth to a higher sphere, leaving Horace, Arthur, 
and Emily under the guardianship of Rev. J. H. Wofford. 
Soon after the death of his parents, Horace was placed in 
school— becoming a pupil of Dr. Burleson, of Waco University. 

His education was desultory, incomplete, and painfully un- 
satisfactory to himself in his after life. The laughing and lov- 
ing lasses with whom he was brought in contact, made sad 
havoc of his romantic and dazzling brain. He hated, and con- 
sequently shunned, all text-books, but became a companion of 
Roliin, Hume, Gibbon, Virgil, and Milton. Thus his college • 
days were spent, until the year 1870, when he withdrew and 
took final leave of the University. After leaving it, he re- 
turned to the city of Austin, and spent two years in reading 
and versifying. When the two years had dragged their mo- 
mentous length along, he went to New York City to superin- 
tend the publication of a book of poems, entitled The Years of 
Youth. From this period his life ebbed into a very different 
channel. It had previously been flowing through smooth and 



mmiammm»ammmmmmmmmiitimmm»mmmm ti i mmsvv*m: im .m ii juin wa— ■»— — 1>— «— 

274 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



verdant vales, while its pracid currents touched only poems 
and violets and lilies that everywhere grew along its banks. 
When this life-stream changed into other channels, it became 
swift and deep, and its nature was dark and bitter. Being 
weighed down by care and sorrow, he prepared to travel. In 
1874, in company with two friends — Dr. E. C. Wise and Mr. 
N. A. Rector — he started for the City of Mexico via New Or- 
leans and Havana. The party remained several months in 
the great ancient gala and voluptuous city of tlie Montezumas, 
when Mr. Rowe joined a party of Americans, who made the 
trip from the Capital of Mexico to Texas, on horseback. On 
this journey he visited the city of Queretaro, where the great 
and gallant Maximilian was brutally shot by the Mexican 
authorities. From this place, he next went to San Louis Potosi, 
thence to Saltillo, Monterey, and Laredo. At this latter place 
he crossed the Rio Grande. He visited that little town of his- 
toric fame where lived Hidalgo, the patriotic priest, who, in 
the year 1810, by shouting the glorious repartee. Viva la Inde- 
pendencia, gave to Mexico her liberty and freedom from Span- 
ish rule. 

June 19th, 1879, Mr. Rowe read before the Alumni Associa- 
tion of Waco University his longest poem — The Mind. It is 
evident that the young poet, in the elation of his genius, felt 
himself full of power and in a position to influence and almost 
command. He entered into copartnership with Mr. Perry Mc- 
Combs in the publication of the Stylus, a magazine of some 
promise. But from past exposure, over study, and close appli- 
cation to his editorial duties, his health failed him, and the 
medical fraternity concurred in the one idea that he was a victim 
of pulmonary consumption, and advised him to seek a milder 
climate. So he joined a company of Texas Rangers commanded 
by Captain L. H. McNelly. He lived with him for seven 
months, most of the time on the Rio Grande. On his return to 
Austin he soon fell into evil and ruinous habits, and to rid 
himself, he fled to New York, where he remained two years. He 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



275 



returned to Texas in the summer of 1878, and was elected Pro- 
fessor of Literature in Waco University, which position he held 
for a brief period only. 

Mr. Rowe was very precocious, having written and published 
the Years of Youth before he had reached the years of maturity. 
And being but a boy, and far from wise, he had made a little 
flourish of self-importance about his ambition in that little 
book that he had innocently issued to a hard world. The 
manner in which his book was received emboldend him to 
greater efforts. Thus The Mh^d was produced. This poem is 
his longest one, and, by Mr. Longfellow, considered his best. 
It shows evidences of haste. The last-one hundred and fifty 
lines were composed within the incredible short period of one 
hour and a half. Its style is smooth. The secret of his pleas- 
ing style lies in his simple manner of narrative, beautifully 
constructed sentences and precision of detail. In some instances 
he is elevating, grave, sublime, and polished to a wonderful 
degree of brilliancy and beauty. While on the other hand, he 
sinks and descends into humble dialogue, provincial rusticity, 
coarse obscenity, and even puns. In some passages he soars 
beyond the ordinary into the loftiest flights of poetry, and in 
this he is scarcely excelled by Mrs. Shindler or Mullie Moore. In 
sentiment and good sense he is not their inferior ; and in the 
beauty of his historic allusions and the acuteness of his criti- 
cisms he has been excelled by few. 

Mr. Rowe lived a life capable, perhaps, of excuse, but not 
of justification. There are times in which concealment is the 
worst injury that can be done a man, as there are also cases in 
which disclosure is a crime. I am incapable of saying in which 
category Rowe's life-story is to be placed. Concealment, how- 
ever, satisfied his vanity, which was great, and his imagination, 
which, notwithstanding his great genius, was not great, but 
limited, and I might even dare to say vulgar. His imagination, 
like Byron's, was much inferior to his genius, and he wanted 
both personal dignity and critical discrimination, which has so 



276 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



much to do with personal dignity as well as with excellence 
in art. 

During his two years sojourn in New York, the young poet, 
in the midst of all his loves, his frivolities, and his embarrass- 
ments, produced a succession of poems, written with the 
greatest rapidity, and with a total absence of study or retire- 
ment hitherto thought necessary to such composition. 

In 1880, Miss Florence Gerald issued Adenheim, and Other 
Poems. Mr. Rowe had the hardihood to review her poems and 
the art of planting wounds that they should sting and burn. 
Had Miss Gerald been wise, she would have borne the pain 
like a heroine, without gratifying her critics by an outcry of 
pain or vengeance. But she felt keenly the stings, and with 
an outburst of young passion and energy she made a spirited 
reply. If it were possible to drop these facts out of Rowe's and 
Miss Gerald's lives and works, I believe their admirers would 
be glad to have it done and I myself not the least contented; 
but they cannot be dropped out of a literary history. He did 
not show much skill in his reviews. His education was im- 
perfect, his information desultory and chaotic. The university 
had conveyed to him but a small share of those humanizing 
influences with which I am fondly apt to credit that seat of 
learning. But, curious as it may seem, it was his assault upon 
Miss Gerald's poems that won him his greatest notoriety, and 
the " Rowe-Gerald " controversy will long be remembered. 
Society, which had been coldly unconscious of his existence, 
opened its doors wide to the poet and critic who had so many 
claims on its considerrition. 

In 1882, Mr. Rowe took a school at Bremond. He made daily 
visits to Wooten Wells, near by, and improved in health. A 
series of misfortunes befell him there, and he left for Waco 
where he died in 1884. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 277 



THE GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY. 



^q-PRING is coming on in beauty 
Hailed by all the glorious earth 
And her voice is sweetly ringing, 
With the songs of joy and mirth. 

And her path is strewn with flowers, 
Garlands wreathed about her brow, 

Robed in Nature's richest costume 
She is comin.r gayly now. 

All the world is up and doing, 

With a heart as light and free 
As the little birds that carol, 
• 'Round them in melodious glee. 

And the industrious farmers early 
Hasted onward to the field, 

For this is the time to labor, 

If their "harvest much would yield. 

If abundance they would gather 
Of the fruit which Autumn bears, 

They must labor now or never, 
For the present's only theirs. 

Youth ! to you this time is given — 
This bright spring-time of your life 

It you must improve, or falter 
In this world's unkindly strife. 

Let not petty trifles turn you. 
Such as maiden's smiles of art ; 

But look thoughtful down the future. 
With a proud, defiant heart. 

What is life without distinction f 
What a name without a nam^ 



That can rest in blazing letters 
On the tablet wrought of Fame! 

Would you die and be forgotten 
Like tlie ripples of a stream ? 

Or the bare and baseless fabric 
Of a sluggard's idle dream ? 

Then know this — without exertion, 
You will not behold your name 

Blazon'd on the banner floating 
O'er the battlements of Fame, 

Ask — where shall ray name be written ? 

Then but mark the loftiest height 
Aim at this — o'ercome each barrier, 

Reach the pinnacle, and write. 

Write by merit — not hishonor, 

Nor by avaricious wealth ; 
For the wealth of glory fadeth 

When 'tis won by treacherous stealth. 



TUB CITY. 



AS DESCRIBED BY A CRUDE OLD COUNTRYMAN. 




I ELL, wife, I've seed the city 
I We've beam so much about, 
An' when I got right squarly in 
I hardly could git out. 
It is so big an' grand-like 
That ev'ry whar I'd go, 
'Long any street just thar I'd meet 
A thousan' folks or mo'. 

I ax'd 'em if 'twas 'lection day, 
Or what was gwine on—' 



But cv'ry lark would laugh an say, 
" Oh, goodbye, country John !" 

I did not know what all this^meant, 
I wasn't gwine then ; ^ 

But, in my life, I never seed 
Sich fine dress'd gals an' men. 

I tell you, wife, them gals look'd gay, 

An' was so purty, too ; 
An' some was dress'd in green an' red, 

An' some was dress'd in blue. 
Now rosy Moll at farmer Jones' 

Did never look so fine. 
In spite of all her Sunday's on, 

When she goes out to shine. 

But ev'ry time I stopt a man, 

An ax'd him what was up, 
(He always had a stick in hand, 

An' at his feet a pup), 
He only look'd at me an' grinn'd, 

Or said some sassy word; 
An' tho' I got right squarly mad, 

I couldn't hurt the bird. 

No, wife, he was so white an' fair — 

Jus' like our baby Sue — 
That in my heart I was ashame 

So dirty thing to do. 
But sometimes I was awful ril'd, 

An' wish'd for little Jim — 
If he'd been thar, to lick them lads 

Would jus' been fun for him. 

But all is pass'd an' over now, 

An' I'm at home agin ; 
So let me tell you what I saw 

In that big town of sin. 
I know you'll wonder, wife, to hear 

What people do an' say 
In sich a place, so fix your mind 

While I prepar the way. 



280 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Now, when I'd tromp'd a noiir or so 

Alono; the biggest street, 
A-wonderin' at the purty things, 

An' at the little feet 
All shod in shoes with buttons on, 

Or some sich fancy thing, 
I felt a grip upon my arm, 

An' thar was Peter King. 

You know he left our neighborhood 

A year or two ago, 
'Cause farmer Jones' silly Moll 

Would never love him mo'. 
Wife, 'tis a pitty that the gal 

Should sich a filly be, 
For Pete was sich a fine young man, 

An' stronger, too, than three. 

I used to watch 'em, with my heart 

A-bilin' up with joy 
To think how happy they was then— 

That handsome gall an' boy. 
But skittish Moll driv Peter off— 

I know she'll rue the day, 
When some young fellow not as good 

Shall take the lass away. 

But let me tell you now of Pete 

(Ah, wife 'twill fetch a tear); 
He ain't the same by half he was 

When he was livin' here. 
He's jus' as handsome, tho', an' kind, 

An' looks as tall an' brave ; 
But when I grasped his manly hand, 

His face was sad an' grave. 

He did not even laugh or smile 

As he was used to do, 
But only in a low voice said, 

" I'm glad to meet with you." 
Then shook my hand as hard an' long 

As when at home we met : 



Poets and Poetry op Texas. 281 



But, wife, I'm 'feared his heart is sore 
With lovin' Molly yet. 

He never ax'd of her ; but once 

When I was tellin' him 
Of how the folks was gittin' on — 

Of you, an' Sue, an Jim — 
I chanc'd to strike on Molly Jones, 

An' I was sorry, wife, 
For now his face was sadder still — 

fie look'd like death in life. 

Oh, if vain Molly did but know 

How grand a heart was broke. 
She would not walk so happy now 

Beneath the elm an' oak. 
But Peter King was poor, you know, 

An' Jones a wealthy nut; 
An', wife, a wall must be betwixt 

The palace an' the hut. 

But Pete is well-to-do- now, Avife, 

An' gittin' rich, he says ; 
But he will never be the same 

As in his boyish days. 
'Tis strange the love of one bright face 

Will turn the mind to gall, 
An' make a noble life bewail 

That it was made at all. 

He never spoke when Moll was named, 

But stood till I was done, 
An' then he ax,d me how it was 

That I had come to town. 
I lold him that I hearn it said 

That skins an' sich like truck 
Was wuth a pile of money here. 

An' come to try my luck. 

Jus' like him, wife, he went an' sold 
What things my wagon bore 

For twice the money they would fetch 
At old man Hobson's store. 

19 



282 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



An' when the night come on he said, 
" I'll show you somethin' new ; 

So let us go an' see the play 

Of ' Black Crook' acted through." 

I did not know Avhat then he meant, 

So gaily went along, 
But soon, dear wife, I found myself 

A-watching somethin' wrong. 
We sot within the grandest house 

Which ever I had seed ; 
An' lads an' ladies too was thar 

Pete call'd the finest breed. 

Right after we had took our cheers 

Sich music fill'd the room 
That for a minute, wife, I thought 

The angel bands had come. 
You know, when me an' you was young. 

How Uncle Jack did play — 
'Y, his old fiddle now would sound 

Jus' like an ass's bray. 

An' then right 'fore us riz a kind 

0' curtain, rich an' wide, 
An' on the stage (Pete call'd it this) 

A hundred gals I spied. 
A hundred gals with nothin' on — 

With nothin' on I swar. 
Except jus' down below the^waist, 

An' all the rest was bar. 

Pete scarce could hold me whar I sot, 

I felt so strange an' quar, 
An' that's the only time he smiled 

While I was with him thar. 
But what was stranger still than this, 

Thar sot them ladies gay, 
A-lookin' on beside the lads, 

No more ashame than they. 

I did not go, dear wife, till all 
The sinful people went ; 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



283 



But then I know you'll not complain, 
Since nothin' wrong I meant. 

For 1 was prayin' in my heart 
While lookin' with my eyes 

That they might read their titles clear 
To mansions in the skies. 

An' many other wicked sights ^ 

I seed within that place, 
An' wondered if the Lord had hid 

From them his shinin' face. 
I hf)pe not ; lor 'twould grieve me sore 

Upon the Judgment day 
To know that all them lovely gals 

Had missed the Narrow Way. 

But here I am at home once mo'. 

An' will not make a fuss, 
For God, so wise an' good, perhaps, 

Has dealt the best with us. 
An' so I've seed the city, wife, 

We've hearn so much about, 
But when I got right squarly in 

I hardly could git out. 



THE WINE-DEATH OF LOVE. 



[The following poem was composed during the month of June, 
1877, while the author was sojourning at the San Lucas springs, 
in the State of Coahuila, Republic of Mexico. These celebrated 
springs are situated in a deep and exceedingly rugged canyon, 
about one hundred and sixty miles distant from Piedras Negras, 
and in a southwesterly direction from the Rio Grande. From 
beneath the mountains which form the canyon, innumerable 
springs issue, — some as cold almost as ice, while others are 
comparatively hot or tepid. The principal spring, and the one 



284 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



resorted to for medical purposes, lies within a huge and awe- 
inspiring cave, arched overhead by adamantine roofs of rock. 
In was beside that pearly, sparkling fountain underground, and 
while listening to the plaintive fall of other waters, that the 
author was constrained to give vent to this weird and fantastic 
improvisation. Of course the creature herein referred to as 
''love" is purely fictitious and mythical, and is employed 
merely as an image to represent a passion that was made utterly 
hopeless by the lover's too frequent indulgence in the sweet 
and soul-soothing potations of wine.] 

*HE waters are moaning sad 
j Over the pebbles and stones ; 
And my soul is gloomy, yet glad, 
As it catches the wild sweet tones. 
Is gloora}^ not mad. 
Though the water is wild with its moans. 

I linger and listen and hear 

A sound from under ground, 
That has a ring so strangely clear, * 

That I wonder whence comes the sound, 
For in truth I fear 
'Tis the voice of my love that was drown'd. 

The voice of my love that died 

In the mystical dream of wine, 
Leaving me and becoming Death's bride, 

In the moment I thought her mine, 
And thus do I pine 
All the night-time away at her green grave's side. . 

Yes, she was wedded to Death while the hue 
Of the wine kissed her lips and chin. 

And the smile she' gave as she pass'd from view 
Was the skeleton smile of sin. 
But alas ! within 

My soul was a madness none ever knew. 

In truth 'twas the fiend of despair 
That had cursed my soul with that gloom, 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 285 



For the love of my life, so white and fair, 
When to Death in the red wine's foam ; 
Even her golden hair 
Was bloody with wine for the tomb. 

And I linger and listen and hear 

A sound from under ground, 
That tells me my love is near, 

And calling me in that sound ; 
For with grief I aver 
Not in water, but wine, was she drown'd. 

Oh, what a horrible, horrible dream 

Is the wild wine-dream of death ! 
But my love she sought the blood-like stream, 

With a fevered and panting breath, 
And like a star-glean 
She sank to the fathomless depths beneath. 

So, from under the water and ground 

Is stealing a strange, sad wail — 
'Tis the voice of my love that was drown'd, 

And that looked so ghostly pale 

When phantom hands wound 
Her form in a shroud, not a veil ! 

Not a veil, like I thought 'twould be — 
A veil wreathed with orange flowers — 

For the one that hid her face from me. 
And irnbittered, like gall, the hours, 
E'rom wine was not free 

As the foliage in Summer showers. 

Oh, the mad, the inefiable curse of wine ! 

It from me my love has riven ; 
And I fear it has stolen the key divine 

That would have unlocked the doors of Heaven. 
And thus do I pine 
That never from sin shall my soul be shriven. 



286 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MRS. MARY SAUNDERS. 




R. A. A. FORBES has kindly furnished me the following 
^sketch of Mrs. Saunders: "]\Irs. jNI.ary Saunders was 
born in Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire, England, 
March 29, 1836. Her father, John Ingle, was a reduced gentle- 
man, hut both jiaronts had been liberally educated, and had 
sa\'cd from the wreck of their fortune a fine library. Her edu- 
cation was very limited, on account of ii most delicate constitu- 
tion, which precluded a regular attendance at school. The old 
library, however, was both school and comj)anion to the girl, 
who eagerly devoured such books as a discerning mother would 
allow her to read. Under the shadow of the old castle which 
was the scene of a famous tournament rendered immortal in 
Scott's Ivanhoe, she read the volumes of that great ])oet and 
novelist. 

She came to San Antonio in 1852, and two years later married 
INIr. Wilson, an English gentleman, who threw himself heart 
and soul into the Confederate struggle ; was promoted to cap- 
tain, and accidentally drowned in the Sabine river, near Orange. 
He had invested in Confederate bonds a small legacy which had 
been bequeathed her, and his death left her alone in the world, 
and penniless. She supported herself comfortably l\)r several 
years by teaching, and in 1S71, married Mr. Saunders, her pres- 
ent husband, a farmer and stockraiser of moderate means. At 
bis faiin, on Curry's creek, in Kendall county, she leads a 
happy and contented life. 

INlrs. Sainulers has a wonderful power of recalling vividly 
every beautiful scene in nature. The sparkling little stream 
on which she lives seeks the clear waters of the swiftly flowing 
Guadalupe, with several beautiful leaps; and the loftly hills 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 287 



which shut it in on either side have suggested some of her 
sweetest poems. 

She has heen a cripple for four years, yet her cheerful spirit 
has never deserted her. Her life, though uneventful, has been 
one full of love, and many a poor soul has been cheered by 
her sweet philosophy and active kindness. 

Her poetry is, like her life, modest and unassuming, but full 
of beauty and sweet harmony." 

For a number of years Mrs. Saunders has been a constant 
contributor to the Texas press, notably the San Antonio Ex- 
press. These contributions, in almost every instance, have 
been poems, and so admirable have they been that they have 
been copied by the papers throughout the country. Her long- 
est poem — Texas — is an ambitions attempt to give a picture of 
the grandeur and beauty of her adopted State. I quote from 
this poem the following stanzas. It is too long to give in full : — 



'HERE arc groves of green willows, where echoes have 
spoken. 
And waters of brightness from rudo rocks are flung; 
Where solitude reigns, and the silence is broken 
At morning and night by the mocking-bird's song. 

There are woods where the pine tree its proud head upheaveth 
To meet the warm kiss of the life-giving sun ; 

While through its dark branches the soft south wind grieveth 
In mystical music o'er days that are gone. 

There arc prairies outs])reading a miniature ocean 

Of emerald billows all brilliant with bloom; 
Wlicre the wing of each zephyr that lendeth a motion 

In passing is bathed in the richest perfume. 

There arc rocks piled on high like the castles of story, 
By fast flowing rivers all frowning and grand. 

While the live-oak outreaching, gigantic and hoary. 
With moss-bannered branches o'er shadows the land. 



There are graves of the heroes whose deeds are immortal, 

And rival Thermopylae's history old ; 
In the Alamo death opened glory's grand portal, 

And nations applaud when its story is told. 

There are fair smiling cities in valleys embosomed, 

Where clear streamlets wander from pure flowing springs, 

When tropical verdure in beauty hath blossomed. 
And tropical birds plume their glittering wings. 

There are riches untold in the heart of her mountains ; 

And plains where the wild horse and buffalo dwell ; 
And health's the free gift of her mineral fountains — 

She has caves where the honey bee buildeth his cell. 

But with treasures of mountain and valley and forest. 

She boasteth of others more precious by far, 
Of all God has given, the noblest the rarest — 

The hearts of the people who love the "Lone Star !" 

This little poem, San Jacinto Dai/, is far above most of the 
eff'orts commemorating the gallant deeds of Houston's men, 
April 21st, 1836. Hence, I give it space : — 

'OVED Starry Banner, unto thee 

Our time dimmed eyes we proudly raise, 
Thou wavest o'er our children free 
And glad hearts glow with grateful praise. 

How dark the cloud that wrapped us round, 

Ere San Jacinto's field was won, 
Our martyred brethren, laurel crowned. 

Had gone before, their work was done. 

But ours remained, and we were few, 

To meet the fierce invading horde. 
But arms were strong and hearts were true. 

For memory whetted every sword. 

The murdered prisoners' blood still cried 
To heaven against the faithless foe, 



J. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 289 



And vengeance breathed on those who died 
For Texas at the Alamo. 

The victor's brand how can they wield 
Whose victims fill such awful graves ? 

For they must meet on battle field 
The living and the buried brave. 

How Texans fought let histor}' tell ; 

Ne'er will this day forgotten be 
Before the Star, the Eagle fell, 

And our beloved home was free. 

Those scenes are past, the fragrant blooms, 

Like jewels, deck Jacinto's-plain, 
Soon tears of dew shall bathe the tombs 

Of all who fought, for few remain. 

Ah ! comrades, we are weak and old. 
With trembling hands, with snow}^ hair, 

Our iron lives have had their gold; 

Thank God we stood with Houston there. 

Another poem I here present from the pen of Mrs. Saunders 
is very suggestive. It is one of her best. The life of the sol- 
dier is a sad one, filled with many terrors and heartaches. In 
this poem — The Dying Soldier — the author causes the soldier to 
tell an o'er true tale : — 

I have walked with graves for land marks, 

Across the sunless waste, 
And only wrecks betoken 

Where the stormy years have paesed. 

The death of the true soldier is a mere "passing over the 
river and resting under the shades." I give the poem in full. 
It cannot fail to please the reader : — 

'OVE, wheel my chair to the window ; 

The streets are thronged to-day 
With busy, happy faces, 
With sounds of laughter gay ; 



With rhyme of ringing footsteps — 

The frosty air, like wine, 
Sets warm, rich blood to dancing — 

How slow and languid mine. 

Hold closer the robe around me, 

And sit beside me, dear ; 
The elm tree's ice-clad branches 

Make music soft and clear. 
The icicles are ringing 

Their tiny tinkling bells ; 
Sweeter than birds in summer 

Their fairy chiming swells. 

A thousand pendant rainbows 

In the morning sunlight gleam. 
And weird, fantastic pictures, 

As fair as poet's dream. 
Arc traced upon my window 

Before my breath to die, 
As I, before the spring tide, 

My love why should you sign? 

Think of the desolation 

My weary eyes have soon, 
My life a scorching desert, 

Or dark morass has been ; 
I have walked with graves for land warks, 

Across the sunless waste, 
And only wrecks betoken 

Where the stormy years have passed, 

A river, whose turbid waters 

Are swollen by tears and blood. 
Flows o'er the sacred altars 

Where the love of a nation stood. 
The star from heaven has faded 

That shone above the gray ; 
The flag is furled forever 

I bore through many a fray. 

At last my heart is broken, 
And lost my hold on life. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 291 



Would I liad died in battle, 
In ''rapture of the strife," 

But come as 'twill, 'tis welcome, 
As to the pilgrim shrine, 

Not even your love could keep me 
And that was never mine. 

Nay, love, why are you weeping? 

Dear, tender heart and true, 
I never should have spoken. 

But that I surely knew 
My hours of pain were numbered, 

But, Sweet, before I go, 
Has earth a type of heaven? . 

Kiss me that I may know." 

He died before the sunset. 

And on his pale dead face 
Was something like a memory 

Of boyhood, s careless grace. 
Was it her loving kisses 

Or rain of tender tears 
That freed him from the shadow 

Of sorrow-darkened years ? 



292 Poets and Poetry of Texas, 



MARY DANA SHINDLER, 



I 



|%ARY STANLEY BUNCE PALMER was bom in Beau- 
ford, South .Carolina, in 1810, and is the most widely 
known poet in Texas, and really the most versatile 
female writer of the South. 

She is known to the reading world as Mrs. Dana. The poems 
by which she first gained celebrity appeared in 1840, in a vol- 
ume called the Southern Harp. Her maiden name was Mary 
Stanley Bunce Palmer. She is the daughter of Rev. B. M. 
Palmer, D. D., pastor of the Congregational church at Beauford, 
at the time of her birth. 

In 1814, her father moved to Charleston and took charge of a 
church in that city. In this city Mrs. Shindler was educated 
by the Misses Ramsay, daughters of the historian, Dr. David 
Ramsay. This enchanting climate was best adapted to inspire 
raptures peculiar to the ode — agayety characteristic of Southern 
song. Amidst the romantic scenes of Charleston was felt with 
uncommon sensibility the force of that pleasing painful passion, 
which, uniting grief, joy, and enthusiasm, contains the fruitful 
sense of whatever is most perfect in music and poetry. 

Mrs. Shindler was married in 1835 to Mr. Charles E. Dana, 
of New York, in which city the first yesiX of her married life 
was passed. In 1838 they became residents of Bloomington, 
Iowa. But she soon had the misfortune to lose her husband 
and only child by death ; and thus left in early widowhood, she 
at once returned to Charleston with the intention of resumine: 
her residence amidst the scenes and associations of her early 
life. She found, however, that the recent troubles through which 
she had passed had clothed every scene of early association 
with attributes so gloomy that a residence at Charleston had no 




lARY DANA SHINDLER. 



loii<,'er any attraction lor her. Lililt' encouragfUKMit to genius 
and lt!;unin;j; was held out to her; though she resolved under 
all disaijpointnients to devote herself to literary i)ursuits— to 
the relined and even to the enjoyment of \\\r. soitiety of the 
great and good. Maturity had now [)erreete(l her early heauty 
and strengthened the ardor of h(!r alleetions. Professor John S. 
Jlart says of iicr at this time : "The anguish of these domestic 
sorrows found voiei; in song, and originated her lirst volunu!, 
The Soalhern Ilarp. This was followed hy The Northern Jlarp, 
The Parted, The Young Sailor, and Forecadle Tom.'" 

Tn IS IS, she was married to Ilev. Ilohert 1). Shindler, a clergy- 
man of tlu! l^^piscopal church. Immediately after the war Mr. 
Shindler moved to Texas, lie settled at Nacogdoches, where 
he remained up to his death, in 1874. She has only one near 
relative, a son, who i« engaged in the mercantile business in 
Nacogdoches. 

In the fall of 187(1, she visited Mem[)his, Tennessee, in 
which city she spent the winter, and there; i»ublished a voIuuk! 
of ahout two hundred pages, giving a detailed, thougii con- 
densed record of her investigations into the s[)iritual i)hc- 
nomena. The Ixxjk is st)ld l»y Colby & Rich, Hoston. it is 
entitled .1 Southerner AinoiKj the Spirits. The book is very 
highly prized by those whose time is given to the investiga- 
tion of tiie subject of which it treats. Of this work the Spir- 
itual Journal (Chicago) says: "Mrs. Shindler is a pleasing 
writer, and her work is a valuable addition to the accumulating 
evidences of Spiritualism. * * * * * Iler purity of 
thought, earnestness of purpose, and unswerving honesty, en- 
dear her to her readers, and add greater value to her work, 
which sh(} has thrown in the right channel." 

Mrs. Shindler returned to her home in May and sjjcnt the 
summer, and again visited Memphis in the following fall. In 
connection with a Memphis lady of high literary attainments, 
she commenced the editorship of a Spiritual and rcd'orm ])a[)er, 
called The Voice of Truth. Her associate being principally in 



294 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



the lecture field, she h;id nearly the sole charge of the paper, 
and a vast amount of writing, besides proof reading, etc., 
finally broke down her health, and she was obliged, in May, to 
return home for rest and recuperation; her companion, Mrs. 
A. C. llawkes, well known in Texas as a fine lecturer, taking 
the editorial chair. She soon became dangerously ill, and it 
was found necessary to suspend the publication of the paper, 
with the promise that they would resume in the fall. Then 
came the dreadful scourge — yellow fever. Every member of 
Mrs. Hawkes' family was prostrated with the fever; her mother 
died, their funds were exhausted; and thus The Voice of Truth 
passed out of existence. It took a high stand as a literary 
journal, and its prospects for success were remarkably prom- 
ising. Both of its editors were Texans, Mrs. Hawkes having 
lived in Texas from childhood. 

As a writer of both prose and poetry, Mrs. Shindler has few 
equals in the South ; and in the sweetness of her numbers, the 
fervor of her language, the splendor of her imagery, and the 
condensed power of her expression, she is, by none of her 
Southern contemporaries ever excelled, and Poe alone can be 
regarded as her equal. Her verses, it is true, were anguish 
versified. You cannot regard them as voluptuous, but as ab- 
stract, etherial, elevated and David-like in principle. The 
critic who regards Mrs. Shindler's songs as mere fragments, 
greatly degrades her genius. Her strains are of a more elevat- 
ing and commanding kind — simple, vehement, rich in images, 
and sparkling in words — her poetry is the poetry of th-e soul. 
Every sentence contains words of sentiment, a finished deli- 
cacy of thought. She is totally unconscious of her powers ; but 
such is the tenderness and enthusiasm of her sensations, that 
she has infused sublimity into her most simple subjects. 

Rowe is soft and delicate in the extreme. His drinking 
poems have all the gayety of their subjects, without any of its 
grossness. MoUie Moore, on the other hand, is always serious 
and impressive ; and though capable of the sublime, she does 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 295 



not often deal in it, but excels in those subjects which call forth 
peculiar strains of i)athos ; while Mrs. Shindler's soaring gen- 
ius led her to indulge in those daring flights of sublimity to 
which few of the Texas authors ever even approached. 

Her best known poem — Passing Under the Rod — is acknowl- 
edged to be one of the most perfect gems of this age. The 
poem may, at first glance, appear forced and affected. Dr. 
Samuel Johnson says: " Where there is real sorrow, there is 
nothing of niere poetry." This criticism is, however, hyper- 
critical, and contrary to popular feeling ; hence we find that 
Shakespeare, who had from nature the deepest intuition into 
the com[)licated science of mental phifosophy, saw that the 
human mind perpetually foils the calculation of previous rea- 
soning. This is no impeachment of the poet's accurate taste 
or genuine simplicity of feeling. It may disappoint the vulgar 
notions which uniformly follow the impulses of practical hu- 
man life, but it is simply the revelry of the poet — a luxury of 
sorrow. Such is her life, and such is her work. A mind 
which leads the public taste by her nice distinctions, startling 
paradoxes, hair-splitting arguments, and detonating use of lan- 
guage. 

Among Mrs. Shindler's religious songs, / am a Pilgrim and a 
Stranger, and Sing to Me of Heaven, are the best known ; and 
few who sing these songs on each returning Sabbath are aware 
thot the author of them lives in modest retirement at her home 
in Nacogdoches, Texas. 

Since the above sketch was prepared, I have learned of Mrs. 
Shindler's death in 1883. 

PASSING UNDER THE ROD. 



SAW the young Bride, in her beauty and pride, 

Bedeck'd in her snowy array. 
And the bright flush of joy mantled high on her cheek, 
While the future look'd blooming and gay, 



296 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Ami with woman's devotion she laid her fond heart 

At the shrine of idolatrons love, 
And she fastenM her hopes to this perishing earth 

By the chain which her tenderness wove. 
But I saw when those heart-strings were bleeding and torn, 

And tlie chain had been sever'd in two, 
She had clianged her white robes for the sables of grief 

And her bloom for the paleness of woe. 
But the HKAr,EH was there, pouring bahn on her heart, 

And wiping tiie tears from her eyes, 
And He strength'd the chain He had broken in twain, 

And fasten \l it lirm to the skies. 
There had whisper'd a voice — 'twas the voice of her God, 
I love thee, I love thee, pass under the rod! 

I saw the young Motiier in tenderness bend 

O'er the coueii of her slumbei'ing boy, 
And she kiss'd the soft lii-)S as they murmured her name, 

While the dreamer lay smiling in joy. 
Oh, sweet as a rose-bud encircleil with dew, 

When its fragrance is Hung on the air. 
So fresh and so bright to that mother he seem'd 

As he lay in his innocence there. 
But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form. 

Pale as marble, and silent and cold ; 
But paler and colder her beautiful boy, 

And the tide of her sorrow was told. 
But the HivAi.KU was there. Who had stricken her heart, 

And taken her treasure away. 
To allure her to Heaven He has placed it on high. 

And the mourner will sweetly obey. 
There had whisper'd a voice, 'twas the voice of her God, 
1 love tliee, I love thee, pass under the rod! 

I saw the fond Brother with glances of love 

Gazing down on a gentle young girl, 
And she hung on liis arm while the whispering wind 

Freely played with each clustering curl. 
Oh, he iov'd the soft tones of her silvery voice. 

Let her use it in sadness or glee. 
And he chisp'd his brave arms round her delicate form 

As she sat on her brother's kuee. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 297 



But I saw when he gazed on her death-stricken face 

And she breath'd not a word in his ear,' 
And he ciasp'd his brave arms round an icy-cohl form, 

And he moisten'd her cheek with a tear. 
But the Healer was there, and He said to him thus : 

" Grieve not for thy sister's short life," 
And He gave to his arms stiil another fair girl, 

And he made her his own cherished wife. 
There had whispered a voice, 'twas the voice of iiis God, 

I love thee, I love thee, pass under the rod! 

I saw a proud father and mother, who lean'd 

On the arms of a dear, gifted son. 
And a star in the future grew bright 'to tiieir gaze. 

As they saw the high place he had won ; 
And the fast-coming evening of life promis'd fair, 

And its pathway grew smooth to their feet. 
And the star-light of love glimmer'd bright at the end, 

And the whispers of fancy were sweet. 
But I saw when they stood bending low o'er the grave 

Where their hearts' dearest hope had been laid. 
And the star had gone down in the darkness of night, 

And the joy from their bosoms had fled. 
But the Healer was there, and His arms were around, 

And He led them with tenderest care, 
As He show'd them a star in the briglit upper world, 

'Twas their star shining brilliantly there ! 
They had each heard a voice, 'twas the voice of their God, 

I love thee, I love thee, — pass under the rod. 



TJIE MOTHER TO HER DEPARTED CHILD, 



^M MUST not weep for thee 
*|| In hopeless agony, 
T ^ My baby dead ! 
Away from earthly things. 
From sorrow's deadly stings, 
On bright, angelic wings, 
Thus early fled ! 



20 



Ere thou hadst tasted woe, 
'Tis better thou shouldst go 

To porfoct bliss ; 
]\ry darling— hoiivenward tied ! 
Oh, shall 1 hang my head, 
And mourn my baby dead, 

And weep— for thi<f 

(lO, cherub! to thy rest ! 
Yes— leave thy motlier's breast 

For angel arms ! 
Sweet baby, I bid thee go ! 
Ah me, too well 1 know 
This earth eould never show 

Such heavenly charms ! 

My baby ! soon 1 must , 
Resign ihy sleeping dust, 

Smiling in death ! 
What didst tiu>u, baby, see, 
Which made thee smile on me. 
When death stood near to thee. 

Stealing thy breath ? 

A gleam of swcit surprise 
Lit up thy languid eyes 

And polish'd brow ; 
And the same heavenly ray 
Around thy lips did play 
As pass'd thy life away. 

And 'tin there iu)ir ! 

I never thought that 1 
Could see mv babv die, 

Yet feel like this! 
Dead— ileavl— and yet so fair ! 
N*> anguish, no despair. 
Comes o'er nu^ while 1 dare 

Thy lips to kiss! 

Those lips that smile in death ! 
I ahnostfecl the breath, 
As once it came, 



When, sleei)ing on my knee, 
Wliile burned my love for thee, 
Thy breath, so sweet to me, 
Did fan love's flame. 

Ah mo ! what have I said ? 
Sweet baby, thou art not dead. 

For, hovering 'I'^li, 
I feel thy s))irit now, 
Soft fingers touch my brow ; 
I might have /moy/m "that thou 

Couhlst never die ! 

My beautiful ! my own ! ! 
We'll lay tliy body down 

Beneath the sod ; 
Farewell, my baby dear ! 
Oh God, forgive this tear ! 
Thyself my heart must cheer 

My Father, (lod ! 

I'll thank Thee, every day, 
That o'er this i)ale, cold clay, 

My baby dead — 
I've felt as now I feel ; 
Though down the tear-drojjs steal 
Thou dost thy love reveal. 

And grief has fled ! 



500 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MRS. ANNA WORD SPRAGINS. 



NNA WORD SPRAGINS was a native of Alabama. Very 
early in life she exhibited a poetic genius, and became a 
distinguished contributor to Southern periodicals, at 
sixteen years of age. In a short time after her debut, her 
poems were being published extensively throughout the South- 
ern States. In 1859, she visited Texas in quest of health. She 
spent nearly two years here, during which time she wrote some 
of her most beautiful poems. In the spring of 1861 she re- 
turned to her home in Alabama; leaving, with many regrets, 
tiie land of flowers and soft sea breezes, to meet at home the 
saddened hearts of loved ones in grief for sons and fathers, and 
brothers, that were just " off for the war." Her heart was en- 
listed in the cause of the Southland. She did a noole work by 
her unceasing efforts to procure blankets, food aud clothing for 
the gallant men in gray. So enthusiastic was she, in this work, 
the enemy wickedly arrested her on false accusations. But as 
no evidence of treason was produced, she was released without 
imprisonment. 

In 1863 she was married to Capt. E. C. Spragins, and for 
several years she seldom wrote poetry. The love of husband 
and family seemed to till her heart and take the place of poetic 
vision. 

In 1S6G her mother moved to Texas, leaving her alone with 
her family in Alabama. Three years later she visited her 
mother in Texas, and while on the eve of returning to Alabama, 
she wrote one of her sweetest poems — Farewell to Texas. Her 
husband died in 1871, and she soon afterwards came to her 
western home to live. Poor in health, sad at heart, she souglit 
health and rest; but vain hope! She died of consumption, 



J. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 301 



June, 1876. Just before her death, she prepared her poems for 
publication. Up to this time, however, they have not been 
published, though richly deserve such honor. 

Mrs. Spragins lived an earnest life. In the schoolroom she 
was gentle, though imperative ; in the domestic circle, queen 
of hearths, though kind and loving. In society, she was so- 
ciable and winning in manners ; in the church, a zealous and 
devoted Christian. As a wife and mother, she was always af- 
fectionate, earnest, and patient. Her early death was regretted 
by every one who knew her. 

There is much in Mrs. Spragins' poems to admire, and little 
to condemn. She made no attempt at classic imitation, but 
wrote as her Muse inspired her, and always selected such sub- 
jects as were native to her intellect. Shiloh, which I present 
here, calls to mind many scenes of battle. This is a true 
story; and it is told in comely verse. There is poetic thought, 
beautifully expressed, in this line, from the eighth stanza :— 

"And midnight wept its surging tears of rain," — 

'Twas [\n April rain, and many a poor form lay 

"With wan, white faces to the drenching flood." 

I turn from the melancholy scenes of that sanguinary con- 
flict between the Blue and the Gray, and give the reader an op- 
portunity to read the "first impressions" of Texas as expressed 
in Mrs. Spragins' Farewell to Texas. Her departure she calls a 

" Sorrow full of weeping." 

There is a beautiful thought in these two lines, from the third 
stanza : — 

And my heart will stop to listen 
To the tinkle of the bells. 

This poem is entirely unlike Shiloh, though not inferior in 
imagery or artistic finish, 



302 Poets and Poetry op Texas. 



8HIL0H. 



"Had but the strength of thy arm, Demosthenes, equaled thy spirit, never had 
Greece suuli under the Conqueror's yoke." 

'HE wings of midnight hovered still and solemn 

Around our army in its garb of gray ; 
A hush of death lay on each silent column 
Of men, who waited for the bloody day. 
Ah ! who can tell the thoughts just 'ere the hour of battle, 

Who tell the fire or yet the fear of men, 
Who wait the day like heroes or like cattle 
To slay the hosts, or by the hosts be slain. 

Along the line war's heav}'^ deep pulsation 

Was felt as daylight streaked the eastern sky ; 
The holy day throbbed, that its desecration, 

Was told in mutters of the thunder nigh. 
The roar of muskets broke the Sabbath morning, 

And knells of death rung- 'mong the budding trees, 
The smoke of battle soon o'erspread the dawning, 

And flung dull vapors to the April breeze. 

The crimson sun, like some mad god appealing 

To orient armies, rose upon the day. 
And threw red light into the fray, revealing 

The pitted ranks of blue and sombre gray. 
Yet heavier rose the lifting boom of cannon 

And shriller muskets, 'till each friend and foe 
Went into death with war's sad, hot abandon. 

Where life was but a diceman's hurried throw. 

They fought like men, our gray-clad earnest heroes — 

With bated breath, and sinews strung to steel — 
And many a message sent the bloody nerves, 

Which made the columns of the bravest reel. 
Then back again came the hot missile showers, 

The red hot plague, into the hearts of men ; 
And through the long, long, bloody day the hours 

Were told to Heaven by the piles of slain. 




Some hearts were there, beneath gray tattered wrappings, 

Which valued life not by its gain, but loss, 
Strong men who loved to count blue gilded trappings, 

As the refiner counts the worthless dross. 
They asked no mark of any man as brother, 

J>ut fought relentless as the hand of Doom, 
With thoughts alone of wife, and child, and mother, 

Made wretched wanderers from the olden home. 

Some souls were there who had lost all but Heaven 

And common (M)untry ; deadly were the blows 
Which their hands dealt, and deep the sword was driven 

In severest vengeance, as remembered woes 
Came u|) to speak of homes laid waste and burning; 

Of loved ones hunted to the bitter death, 
And Shiloh saw their faces turn from yearning 

To darker thoughts — their words to murderous breath. 

Dim clouds hung low at evening's close, and darkly 

Uprose the last black volume of the day ; 
And glazing eyes through lifting smoke, gazed starkly 

Up to the clouds, unheeding where they lay. 
The sunset hour was redder than the dawning, 

The blush of pain was deeper in the west; 
The Sabbath day, which broke on Shiloh's morning, 

Wore sadder robes than when it flushed the east. 

And hushed the battle, save anon the jarring 

Of sleepless cannon rolling on the air; 
The Southland braves had ceased the bloody warring 

When night came down without a single star. 
On the damp night-wind rose the heavy morning, 

The anguished pleading, and the cries of j)ain. 
And 'mid the broken prayer and stifled groaning 

The midnight wept its surging tears of rain. 

Oh, night of Shiloh! Friends and brothers pleading 
Blent with the foe. Oh, night of April rain! 

The pitying God looked down upon the bleeding. 
And send some death to still the mortal pain. 

Oh, night of Shiloh ! Dying forms that shivered 
With wan, white faces to the drenching flood. 



304 Poets and Poetey of Texas. 



Prayed long, 'till, kind, their hearts-strings breaking, 
quivered. 
And left the dead at rest in pools of blood. 

Oh, night of Shiloh ! Priceless were the treasures 

Our army paid to call thee once its own ; 
With truest hearts, and blood in untold measures, 

The bloody day and moaning night were won. 
Oh, field of Shiloh ! Victory's form revealing 

The hard won guerdon to the ranks of gray — 
On the tomorrow, all her words repealing, 

Unfurled her wings and bore the gift away. 

Ah, who may tell the sadness of that morrow 

When victory took our heritage and fled — 
Ah, who may tell the bitter tale of sorrow, 

The gallant gray at second midnight read ? 
Today 'tis ours, and gratefully we read it 

With other tears than we were wont to read. 
They could no more, and mournfully we heed it, 

While we strew flowers for the Shiloh-dead. 

And to the maimed, who wear the scars of Shiloh 

In deep remembrance of the day of blood, 
We bring our hearts to wreathe a lustrous halo. 

Around the noble Southland Brotherhood; 
And lay heart off"erings on our dripping altar, 

But the more sacred, that 'tis broken now; 
And with the lips, which never knew to falter 

Repeat today proud honor's solemn vow. 

And some were there who fought for deathless honor, - 

Which fills high hearts, for well they loved the land, 
And would hurl back the foes which smote upon her, 

Or meet them proudly, ever hand to hand. 
Oh ! Southland fair, had truth e'er yet been plainer — 

Had thy sons known their blood was spilled in vain — 
They yet had looked upon thy proud barred banner. 

And given their lives that it should know no stain. 

Yet whether vengeance or our Southland's glory 
Nerved the strong arm, they fought the day full well. 



And Shiloh's plain at midnight's hour, was gory, 
All red with blood where many a hero fell. 

Ah, deep the roar, and quick the smiling rattle 
Heard through the stilling canopy of smoke, 

Tell the fierce hour of evening turned the battle. 
And Southland voices the proud victory spoke. 

But bought so dear, when past the midday turning. 

The tide bore down the legions where they stood. 
When the loved tongue the slow advance was urging, 

The "Sun of Shiloh" set in reeking blood ; 
The XVestern Hero, in meridian glory. 

Far better than that at the awful close, 
When lips grew pale to speak a nation's story, 

And write in tears a thousand bitter woes. 

Blow, Western winds, o'er the fair land of flowers, 

Forever whispering the proud Hero's name ; — 
Bloom of the West, come from the myriad bowers 

With breath of fragrance offered to his fame ; 
These, to his memory, while a better brightness 

Rest, on his soul beyond the honored tomb — 
Hearts guard his grave, 'til the tomorrow's lightness 

Speaks to the dust— "A better Shiloh come." 



FAREWELL TO TEXAS. 



^ARE thee well ! bright land of beauty, 

Emerald land, a long farewell ; 
Words are faint, too faint to speak the 
Sorrow which my heart would tell. 
'Tis a sorrow full of weeping. 
And a parting full of gloom, 
As I look farewell and turn me 
From thy face of glorious bloom. 

Adieu to shades where I have wandered 
'Neath the elm trees' greenest blow, 



And to places bright to sadness 
With the sunshine's mellow glow. 

Adieu to the briglit green prairies, 
Wild flowers and the river dell ; 

Groves and birds — oh, land of beauty, 
'Tis a pang to say farewell, 

I shall dream of her at morning 

In another home I seek. 
Dream of all the wondrous beauty ■) 

Which a Texan morn can make. 
And my heart will stop to listen 

To the tinkle of the bells. 
Floating o'er the wavinj^ grasses 

Like some happy music swells. 

And at evening's hour so stilly 

Will my heart fly home to thee, 
Fast and far as doth the sailors 

Home, from o'er the rocking sea. 
And a loving heart will linger 

Just beyond yon sloping hill 
Listening to the low, sad music 

From the solemn whip-poor-will. 

Aye, my spirit will come to thee 

In the witching hour of night, 
When the live oaks on the prairie 

Are aflood with li(piid light. 
When the sky wears on its bosom 

All the glory of the moon; 
And the South sea-wind is coming 

Laden with the heart of June. 

When the mesquite bends and quivers 

To the night-wind sighing low, 
And the shading moss is waving 

Gently from the trailing bough. 
When upon the sea breeze wakens 

Songs the sweetest ever heard, 
Pouring in the poet numbers 

From the wakeful mocking-bird. 



Poets and Poetry of Tkxas. 



307 



Ah, bright Land the heart which loves thee, 

Loves thy every changeful cliarm, 
Will come home in dreams full often 

With a love as pure and warm. 
As the sun which glows and brightens 

On thy peerless emerald brow — 
Warm and fresh — the years can dim not 

The great love I bear thee now. 



But farewell, tliou home of beauty, 

Parting hath a pang today ; 
Blessings of my saddened spirit / 

I will give thee, and away. 
Fare thee well, broad, bright prairies, 

Wild flowers and the mossy dell ; 
River blue and vale of cashmere. 

Emerald land — a long farewell! 



308 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MRS. BELLA FRENCH SWISHER, 



ITHER as author, editor or poet, Mrs. Swisher is well 
known throughout the United States. She is a native 

Georgian, and was born in 18o7. When four years of age 
she moved North, where she resided till 1877, when she came 
to Texas, and established here the American Sketch Book. She 
began literary work while very young. In 1867 she was liter- 
ary editor of Pomeroy^s Democrat. In 18G8 she established the 
Western Progress, at Brownsville, Minnesota. In 1872 she be- 
gan the publication of the Busy West, at St. Paul. In 1874 she 
began the American Sketch Book, at La Cross, Wisconsin, and 
in 1877 she moved it to Austin. The literary labors of Mrs. 
Swisher would fill several volumes. She has published only 
two books, one a novel — Struggling up to the Light, — and one — 
A History of Brown County, Wisconsin. In 1878 she was mar- 
ried to Col. John M. Swisher, an old veteran, and a gentleman 
of culture and wealth, of the city of Austin. 

The poems I present from Mrs. Swisher's pen are true pic- 
tures. Her San Antonio River is a poem of beauty, while Leav- 
ing Home is extremely touching and "heart-true." Mrs. 
Swisher promises to collect her poems and present them to the 
world in a neat volume soon. 

TJIi: SAN ANTONIO RIVER. 



MOST fairy-like thing winding in, winding out, 
Overshadowed by leaflets that quiver 
'In the breezes which toss the clear wavelets about, 
Flows the sweet San Antonio River, 



Under bridges, by churches, near ruins most grand, 
With its numerous gladsome surprises. 

In its grandeur of landscape on every hand, 
From the beautiful spring where it rises. 

I sat down near the source, on one glorious day, 

When the sweet mocking-birds, a great number. 
Were each piping forth its melodious lay, 

And I think that I dropped into slumber; 
For up from the foxgloves of every hue, 

From all points of those emerald bowers. 
Groups of fairies came forth to my wondering view, 

Quite us numberless as the sweet flowers. 

One ran down to the spring with a wee larkspur cup — 

(O, has nature a tinier daughter I) 
And the pure little goblet she brimful filled up 

With the beautiful shimmering water. 
Then I said, " Fairy Queen, can you tell me, I pray, 

From whence came this most glorious river ?" 
In a silvery voice replied the fair fay : 

"Yes, a woman's bright tear was the giver ! 

" In the ages agone lived a sweet fairy queen. 

And this sky over us was her cover, 
And her carpet, like this, was a flowery sheen, 

But her heart was possessed by a lover — 
One as fickle as man in all ages has been 

When he finds that a woman will love him. 
And who turned from her arms yet another to win. 

Ever longing for what was above him. 

"For the god of the fays had a daughter as fair 

And as pure as the light of the morning. 
And he fell deep in love with her beautiful hair, 

Never heeding our time-honored warning: 
'Should the child of a god ever mate with a fay, 

Both are banished in the darkness forever.' 
But the goddess and he thought to flee far away 

To some land where no more they would sever. 

"It was here that the lovers were plighting their troth, 
On this spot never pressed by a mortal ; 



310 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



But that instant the god sent his vengeance on both; 

And, direct from his heavenly portal, 
A thunder-bolt fell on the love-plighted pair. 

The green earth quickly rending asunder, 
And the lay and the goddess with beautiful hair 

In the ruins were here buried under. 

**A great crevice was all that was left to the view ; 

This was dark, and unsightly, and j'^awning, 
Till the queen of the fairies, in love ever true, 

Stole alone to its brink, at one dawning, 
And low kneeling beside, dropped a pitying tear 

Which has blessed this sweet vale through the giver ; 
For the tear grew at once to this spring, sweet and clear, 

And the spring to the beautiful river. 

"And e'er since that bright morn it went dancing away, 

Woman's pitying tears have been flowing !" 
I awoke — out of sigbt wenttbe strange little fay. 

But to where — it was not for my knowing. 
Yet as then, on its way, winding in, winding out. 

Overshadowed by leaflets that quiver 
In the breezes which toss its clear wavelets about, 

Flows the sweet San Antonio River. 



LEAVING HOME. 



WHAT a host of holy recollections 
All cluster round the spot which we call home ; 
Dear memories are they, that linger ever 
With us, though /a?- our wandering feet may roam ! 
I go out in the busy world tomorrow. 

The dear ones whom I love I leave behind ; 
The}'^ have been mine in pleasure and in sorrow, 
And friends like those I never more may find. 

Out in the busy world, perhaps no more to meet them, 
Their paths and mine, I know, must be apart; 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 311 



No wonder, then, that my weak soul should sicken, 
And that a dreary pain should pierce my heart. 

P'orever more, perhaps, beside home's altar 
At morn and eve, a vacant place will be ; 

And when upon the path of life I falter, 
O. who will cheer and guide and strengthen me ! 

Sad, sad am I tonight. My soul is weeping 

Such tears as those we shed above the dead, 
When, one by one, the sods fall on the coffin. 

And we turn from the spot with hopeless tread. 
0, there are sadder tilings for us than dying ! 

Yes, sadder things than closing glassy eyes, 
When some loved one in death's e'mbrace is lying. 

''J'is when we put aside what most we prize. 

Farewell, dear ones. May God's sweet angel guide you 

To blooming paths, where skies are always clear! 
0, if a prayer of mine had power to bless you, 

Then what a world of joy would crown each year ! 
Farewell ! Farewell ! This world is full of sadness, 

And of wrecked hopes, and joys, and wasted lives. 
0, hapjiy he who keeps its faith and gladness, 

And all its bitter, blighting storms survives. 



— ^-^rJ^^^J^^-- 



312 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MRS. JULIA PHIFER TRUITT, 




RS. JULIA PHIFER TRUITT was born in Mansfield 
Louisiana, and received her education in a college in 
her native village. After her graduation in 1873 she 
began to teach. November 28th, 1877, she was married to Rev. 
J. M. Truitt, a member of the Northwest Texas Conference. 

The easy circumstances and high rank of her family left her 
at liberty to devote herself to literary studies, for which she 
had from youth showed a strong predilection. She possesses a 
noble and enthusiastic nature. Her brilliant passages, and her 
penetrating knowledge of the human heart, will spread a lustre 
around her name of which the admirers of Texas poetry may 
well be proud. Everything is individualized and brought 
strongly and closely to the eye and understanding of the reader, 
and stamps upon the mind the impression of nature. Her 
genius is not limited to the rough and rustic, but passes with equal 
facility to the refined and elevated subjects which inlist her 
whole nature. If her mind is not permitted to be active, her 
whole thinking faculties are paralized. This is a physiological 
condition more or less characteristic of the female writers of the 
South. There is more heart and less brain in Southern 
literature. 

In 1879 and 1880, Mrs. Truitt wrote a novel which appeared 
in part in the Galveston Christian Advocate. The story was 
well received by the public and elicited some enthusiasm among 
her friends, when it was suddenly discontinued by interference 
of the Conference which controlled the paper. This sudden 
stoppage created quite a sensation among the Methodist of the 
State, but the difficulties were settled without serious trouble. 

Mr. W. E. Shaw says : "Mrs. Truitt is the most graceful 



-I. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 313 



writer aiiiong the Texas poets." Dio Rivers, in Southern Lit- 
erary People, wrote : "Mrs. Truitt ranks very high among the 
female writers of the South and has few equals in Texas." 

BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

^|UST an airy wedge in the sunlit skies, 
^Ijl And a sound of far-up bugles blowing, 

*^ And the wistful wonder of lifted eves 

That follow far where the birds are going. 
A thrill to the heart as of some regret, 

Some want to the soul of wings for flying ; 
While the airy wedge to the north is set, 

And the bugle call on the air is dying. 

They have brought a dream of a tropic land 

■Where the lakes lie wrapt in summer glory, 
And the mute old mountains in silence stand,' 

With not a poet to tell their story. 
But the sea has sung it from age to age, 

The pines grow sad with its faltering, failing, 
Aiid these birds that pass on their pilgrimage 

Have caught the voice of its mystic wailing. 

But where is the poet can sing the song? 

Or where is the seer can tell the story ? 
For the sphynx has sat by the roadside long, 

And lo ! the mountains grow cold and hoary. 
Still we wait, and question— and still there lies 

A dark Beyond that is not for knowing ; 
Still the wistful wonder of lifted eyes 

That follow far where the birds are going. 



SOMETIMES. 



tllERE is a brighter, fairer land, they say, 
Somewhere beyond earth's lovely, fleeting day, 
+ A strange, new world, with grander, sweeter climesj 



.L 



314 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



And when these snmmer skies grow warm and blue, 
Such waves of softer light come drifting through, 
I think the veil is half withdrawn, sometimes. 

In that fair land such music sweet, they say, 
Rings round the Throne and to the Gates of Day, 

Re-echoing in long melodious chimes. 
That when some subtle sense of music thrills 
Upon our soul, and all its passion stills, 

1 think the harp-notes fall from Heaven, sometimes. 

No glimpse of all that heavenly land, they say, 
Can come to us, who wander far away, 

Until Death wafts us to those sunnier climes; 
But when the soul, o'erwearied, faltering stands, 
Such radiance comes, despite her empty hands, 

I think the Gate stands half ajar, sometimes. 

Oh, world of beauty ! World of light ! they say; 
Fair world we long for, — yet — so far away ! 

How shall we reach those far-off, lovely climes? 
But just beyond our ken — so close it seems, 
'Tis but to wake from these long, troubled dreams. 

And find Heaven nearer than we think, sometimes. 




THOMAS SLOSS TURNER! 



'^ll ^*^' '^'^^^'l^^^ made his appearance as an author in 1883. 
^i|^ This was done hy the puhlication of a neat little vol- 
* nine entitled Poems. This simple child of his genius 
was put forth without tumult or preface, and is dedicated sim- 
ply, " To My Friends." He tells us that he wrote his poems 
often in sorrow, perplexity and distress. 

Mr. Turner was born in Warren county, Kentucky, in 18G0, 
and is among the youngest, though not the less promising, poets 
in our galaxy. His father came to Texas in 1877, and settled 
near Dallas, and subsequently moved to Hill county, where 
the poet now resides. His boyhood has been passed on the 
farm. In 1881, he entered Marvin College, Waxahachie, but 
failing health drove him b;ick to the farm. In 1883, he entered 

Southwestern University , Georgetown, where he remained a short 
time, when he returned to Hill county, where he is at present, 
engaged in the stationery business. 

In 1882, he conceived the idea of putting forth a book. Be- 
ing poor and ambitious, he makes an effort, by its publication, 
to increase his purse, and to enable him to complete his college 
studies. This was surely a commendable enterprise, and he 
deserved success. This book is a 12 mo. volume, and contains 
126 pages. It is filled with verses expressive of his childish 
love and ambition. With a few exceptions, the poems show 
evidences of imagination, but little genius. He has written of 
the scenes that surrounded his daily life— its loves, its sorrows 
and its hopes ; and while he had little to inspire, he has found 
much to admire. There is a breath of tender simplicity and 
gracefulness in his writings that impress one that there burns 
a fire within him. He has written early, and will publish late. 



316 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



His boyish revelry is not as correct as mature art could make 
it. I hope to know more of his verse. The poems presented 
here are among his best: 

LIFE'S BREVITY. 



HERE are many people who sit 

Ever wearily complaining 
That tlie hours of this life do flit 
With such a short remaining. 
They sigh its lack of sweetness, 
They mourn its incompleteness, 
They wail its rapid fleetness, 
And sit with folded hands, 
And such dark gloom upon their faces, 
And frowning brows and horrid traces. 
That men shun them in all places 
As pestilential lands. 

And there are those who work 

With patient hands and willing, 
Who never swerve aside or shirk, 

But are life's missions filling. 
To them the birds are sweetly singing, 
For them the beauteous flowers are springing, 
And life to them reward is bringing. 

And gives them happiness. 
They take no time to think of sorrow, 
And still of grief refuse to borrow, 
But look with joy unto the morrow, 

And thus their lives they bless. 

And while one walks in gloom and pain 

The other walks in pleasure, 
And singeth e'er a glad refrain — 

Contentment is a treasure ! 
To one this life is cheerless, dreary ; 
Its joy to him's obscure and bleary ; 
Through life he goes unblest and wearv. 

To one this life is real, 



He makes it so by ever doing, 
By striving still/and still pursuing; 
Each day his strength he is renewing 
By seeking an Ideal. 



LINES. 



W'VE wasted many a precious hour 
Jl That might have been ermployed, 
f And many a pleasure turned away 
I might so much enjoyed ; 

And many a high-born thought has died 

That never was expressed, 
And many a cruel wrong has been 

That never was redressed ; 

And many a noble impulse, too, 
And good resolve have died ; 

And many things that might have been 
Were slain by foolish pride. 

I've spent my life in useless grief, 
And craved what could not be, 

And fretted o'er the slightest thing 
That went amiss with me. 



31S Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MRS. MARY E. TURRENTINE, 



HE subject of this sketoli is a noble daughter of a noble 
I sire, being the oldest child of Judge Alfred W. Arrington, 
one of the most prominent lawyers in this country and a 
poet above mediocrity, a sketch of whose life appears in this 
volume. The widow o\' Judge Arrington. mother of ^Irs. Tur- 
rontine. is still living at Fayetteville. Arkansas. 

Mrs. Turrentine was born December 1>>. 1884. and as she grew 
up to wvMuanhood she received that careful training and educa- 
tion which goes to make up the lady, the true woman, and 
which is necessary for the free development o( inborn genius 
and mental worth. On September 4, 1858, she was married to 
Mr. A. J. Strickland, of (ieorgetown. Texas, who died in 18oG. 
After remaining a widow live years, she married her present 
husband, Mr. W. K. Turrentine, a farmer of Brown county. 

Mrs. Turrentiue's life has been a busy and eventful one, 
mingled with many cares; yet she has dotted her horizon with 
many bright stars created from a fruitful mind and moulded b}' 
a noble character. She has lived in a tent on the far prairies; 
has faithfully pertormed the duties of a farmer's witV; has 
reared a family of six children, four sons and two daughters, 
and has still found time to write gems of poetry that will" live 
to perpetuate her memory lonji after she shall cease to be. She 
is a firm believer in the Christian faith, being a member of the 
Methoilisi I'l pi son j-ial Church South. She has written some 
very excellent jioems, as well as prose, and has published a 
volume of poetry of two hundred and fifty pages. 

Such, brictiy told, is the history of her, who. among many 
other beautiful things, wrote the following exquisite lines : — 



TO A MOCKING-BIRD. 



^1^ LIST with senses wrapt in ecstasy 

S|| Of wild delight to thine own silver tone, 

f Oh, sweetest warbler of our prairie land, 

As thou, beneath the stars, dost sing alone ! 

All songs that other feathered minstrels sing 

Are also native to thy mellow throat. 
Yet softer, clearer in thine utterance 

Than in the bird's, that pipes the one small note. 

What shallow mortal dubbed thee " plagiarist," 
Because tliy limpid notes take all the range 

Of music for thy brethren, oh, thou clear 
Interpreter of swcict and sad and strange ? 

Oh, rather say that unto thee is given 
The high, imperial birthright, thus to be, 

Of all bird nature tlius the music voice, — 
A poet, prophet, made by sympathy ! 

And if the dreamer's tender thought be true, 
If lower minds still climb a golden stair, 

Rising up-lifted by the hand of death. 
To broader vistas, and a clearer air. 

Me-thinks one crystal stc]) alone remains 
Until thy genius high shall language find, 

And then shalt gladden earth, a poet soul. 

With utterance sweet, fur thoughts of human kind. 






r 



320 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



W. T. G. WEAVER, 



^JUDGE WEAVER is chiefly known by liis Gems from 
^^ Ossian, The Red GirJ, Rosabel, and Cleopatra. 

* He was born in Missouri about 1834, and came to Texas 
and settled in Lamar county in 1843, and died in 1877. He 
was District Judge during Throckmorton's acbninistration— 1866 
to 1867. He was a member of the Constitutional Convention 
of 1875 which framed the present State Constitution. He 
came to Texas during the Republic, when he was only 
eight years of age. His childhood was passed here roaming 
over the widely extended prairies and densely wooded forests. 
During the early days of Texas, the State was not blessed with 
schools and colleges; consequently his early training was sadly 
neglected, his only education being such as could be obtained 
from the common schools of that day, and from Nature in its 
diversity. I admire much one, who amid such trials and sore 
temptations as were meted out to him, could breast all this, 
seek rest and shelter beneath some wide-spread summer oak, 
and rehenrse, in magicnl verse, his man}' hair-breadth escapes 
from privations incident to such a life in the early days of the 
Republic, and give the coming generations an account of the 
wild man of the forest who infested hill and dale. The wilder- 
ness, indeed, was tilled with the fiercest prowlers of the forest 
and the meanest reptiles of the marsh. He was a poet of 
nature, and unlike any other of the Texas poets, sang of what 
he saw and knew, of what he felt and suffered, and in the per- 
son of our Texas heroes of liberty, he embodies his own life 
and sufferings. He aimed at the sinless and true, and never 
soared into the ethereal. His simplicity of diction is a merit 
that his less enthusiastic admirers acknowledge, and his genius 



so palpable that his cotemporaries tremble lest he bear off the 
palm. 

He was an admiring friend of Houston's, and passed many 
liappy moments composing lines to the memory of his noble 
and heroic deeds in wrestling from our common enemy these 
broad and fertile plains. Iloasion^s Address to His Men at San 
Jacinto, especially, deserves notice. It shows Houston's abid- 
ing faith, integrity, and generalship. Such appeals were char- 
acteristic of him and the scenes in which he was about to enter. 
I give it place, as illustrative of his patriotism : — 

OLDIERS ! the moment is at hand 
When every Texan true must stand 
And bravely face the daring foe — 
These murderous fiends of Mexico ! 

Is there a man whose nerves will quake 
When home and country are at stake ? 
No i fight and boldly pledge your lives — 
'Tis for your country, children, wives ! 

What man from these will dare to fly ? 
What man for these will fear to die ? 
Trust in God of righteous might. 
And for our own green Texas fight. 

Remember the blood-stained Alamo ! 
And make each stroke a deadly l)low ; 
Think how those heroes stood their ground, 
And fell like Caesar, hero-crowned. 

Bear on our standard ! though we die. 
The Lone Star still shall gem the sky, 
And Freedom's flag forever wave 
Above the death-couch of the brave ! 

Then on, my comrades ! who would shrink? 
Aim well your faithful rifles ! think 
How Bowie's noble blood did flow ! — 
Remember, then, the Alamo ! 



322 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Weaver was an officer in the Southern army during the war 
between the States, and was a hero in every strife. A braver 
leader never led our boys in gray. He was an honor to the 
cause he represented, and 

Won fresh laurels on the bloodiest plain, 

And dropped warm tears o'er the comrades slain. 

He returned to Texas crowned with glory. 

His only published volume — Hours of Amusement — is in my 
library. I have read every line more than once, and unhesi- 
tatingly pronounce it a lit companion for every lover of the 
poetry and literature of our young State, and a valuable addi- 
tion to every Texan's library. In the preface to this work the 
author says: "The classic treasures from which educated 
poets often borrow a part of their wealth are locked up from 
me. I can only sit at the foot of Parnassus and cast a wishful 
look at the bright spirits entbroned in the Temple of fame on 
its laurel-crowned summit, and ardent devotees who are toiling 
up its steep sides, eager to gather the green boughs above them, 
and feel 

The eagle's gaze alone surveys 
The sun's meridian splendor. 

" But if my muse be illcgitiniate, still she is Nature's child, 
born of the dew and sunshine, cradled in the wild forest, and 
pillowed on the bosom of the verdant plains of the West. 
Thus she has derived whatever inspiration she may possess 
from Nature's school. The landscape charms of Texas, and 
especiall}' the vernal and floral beauty of her enchanting prai- 
ries, in their spring, summer and autumn dress, has been the 
themes she has tried to sing." 

The poems, for the most part, included in his volume — Hours 
of Amusement — were composed between his fifteenth and twen- 
ty-first year. He was very precocious, and the flames of his 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 323 



poetic ardor did not relinquish <aH age increased and troubles 
began to bear heavily upon him. 

In the Red Girl, a poem of near twelve hundred lines, we 
have a true picture of Indian hardships, and an insight into 
their real character. The story of the Indian maiden is pa- 
thetically told, and the reader is lead to admire her true devo- 
tion to Eugene in snatching him from the scalping-knife's keen 
edge. The story of unrequited love is also graphically por- 
trayed, and the revenge of an unappreciated lover-chief put 
forth in unmistakable terms of terseness and beauty. The 
story of Pocahontas has much in it to admire, but the simple 
story of this Island Queen has more. The former was a real 
character, while tlie latter was an ideal character, yet true to 
the Indian characteristic. 

I do not find in Weaver's writings the fiery ardor, nor the 
enthusiastic indignation which burn in the verses of Mr. Gille- 
land. This is, however, wholly attributnble to the londerncss 
of his heart and the gentleness of his disposition. His purity 
of purpose, and largeness of soul, disinclined him to portray 
vice in its hideous and loathsome forms, and cngngo in bitter- 
ness of invectives which the prevalent enormities of his time 
deserve. He lived within himself a meditative life. Display 
of learning and pomp of glory he despised. His modest and 
retiring nature found little sympathy with the passions and 
turmoils which agitated the public mind. .Judge Weaver's 
residence was at Gainesville, Texas. 

CLEOPATRA. 



^^ ^^^"^"S'« halcyon time, and the red beams 

*P^Of dying day were lingering on the tojjs 
M^Of Egypt's Pyramids. The twilight winds 
Of that enchanting clime began to stir 
The palm-tree's foliage, and spread the sweets 
Of waking flowers. That time young maidens seek 



The trysting-place, and wait with tluttoring hearts 
And downcast eyes, to meet their swains, a group 
Of women mourned around a new-made tom\i : 
And in their midst was one more U^vely than 
The poet's sweetest dream of maiden grace 
And Andahisian beauty — one of form 
So fair in its proportions, that it put 
To shamo the chisel of Praxiteles. 

"Twas Cleopatra. Egypt's peerless Queen. 
And she was kneeling by the tomb that held 
The dust of that great Roman warrior, who 
Had loved her unto death ; and when his star 
Of empire set, and friends — long trusted — fled 
To join the knave Augustus, while she sat 
Amid the wrecks of all her power, he clung 
To her with that deep, earnest love, that knows 
No change with time; and when false rumor came 
That she was pe.^d, he bowed in all the gloom 
Of lonely grief, and cried: "Oh. what is lite 
To Antony, when she is dead for whom 
Alone he wished to live." 

Oh I what was empire, glory, eloquence 
Or wealth to him, when Egypt's Queen lay dead? 
Her fjiir round arms that oft had clasped him to 
Her full-love-beating bosom, now were cold 
In death ! that music voice, that charmed the soul 
Of the great Julius and turned him from 
The conqueror's path to rest a captive in 
A foreign woman's arms, was hushed I 
Yes, she was gone and earth held not her peer. 
No more upon Mark Antony could beam 
Such love-lit eyes and winning smiles as hers I 

Well might she kneel 
Beside the grave of him who freely gave 
Up conquered Asia for her arms, and could 
Forget Octavia, young and beautiful. 
And sheathe the sword that overthrew the chiefs 
Who led the stern Republicans of Rome ! 
For her, he had subdued the Parthian hosts. 



Poets and Poetry op Texas. 325 



And crossed Aiabia's sands — traversed the wilds 

or Media and Armenia; he had reij^ned 

Kin<j; ot* the Asiatic world, and stood supreme 

And matchless 'midst the bravest clieis 

01" warrior-peopled Rome ! ay, had laid 

A hero's glories and his many realms. 

Love ofl'erings at a woman's feet, asking 

No dowry, save her smiles ; and he forgot 

Her liekleness, .ictium, his disgrace, and all. 

Then died Cor her, died like a Roman, brave 

And noble to the last ! 

Then, the high instincts of her woman-heart 

Were stirred, and Cleopaira knelt- upon 

Her lover's tomb and those sweet lips broke forth 

In wailing tones : 

"It is not long, my Antony, since with 

These hands I buried thee ! oh ! hide me, hide 

Me in the grave, for life is naught since Ihou 

Hast left it!" 

Call her a courtesan, stern moralist! 

Call her a treacherous queen, historian ! She 

Was woman still. Her heart beats with the high 

Impulse of tender, constant love, and she 

Was worthy of the Roman chief; she bathed 

His tomb with widow's tears ; she kissed it in 

Her grief, and crowned it with fresh, fragrant flowers, 

Those sweet interpreters of woman's heart; 

Tlien rose and sought the cooling wave to bathe 

That Paphian form, Avhose youthful charms had made 

Earth's conqueror kneel and sue ! 

Then came her maids 
And decketl their sad and beauteous mistress in 
Her royal robes, as if her nuptual hour 
Had come again ; and with a heroism 
Worthy of the chief she mourned, she bravely crossed 
Death's icy waves, and sweetly slept with her 
Loved Roman on the flowery shores that bask 
In bright Elysium ! 



SONG OF THE TEXAS RANGERS. 



URRAH for the war trail ! away let us roam 
O'er the prairie's green bosom, the antelope's home ; 
See! the last sun-beam jewels the tresses of night, 
And the star-isles of heaven uncurtain their light. 

You may sing of blest Araby's cool, lotus bowers, 
Of Italy's fountain, and India's tlowers, 
But give me my home in the beautiful West, 
Still a ranger I'll roam on the prairie's broad breast. 

Prisoned close in his vessel, the waves dashing high, 
On the billows of ocean the Rover may fly, 
But these wikl, treeless meadows, this blossomy sea, 
Is the world of the Ranger, the home of the Free ! 

Where yon bright yellow blossoms by acres unfold, 
Bending light in the breezes like ripples of gold, 
The silky mesquit for our couches is spread. 
And the prairie will furnish us forage and bed. 

By yon willow-fringed river that winds through the plain 
In the dark of the evening, we'll slacken the rein. 
And there in the shadows we'll silently lie. 
Till Cynthia has brightened the orieiit sky. 

The full moon has risen : brave comratles, give heed. 
Look well to your rifles ; each man to his steed — 
Our rifles are primed, and our coursers are fleet — 
Woe ! death to the savage, this night we may meet ! 

Why sing of the conflict? the Indian's yell? 
How many were wounded ? the numbers who fell ? 
Enough, that at daylight, their Chieftain was slain. 
And his warriors flying far over the plain. 

Morn kisses the earth, red flushes the East, 
Our steeds are aweary — halt, boys, for the feast 



■h 



Which the deer and young antelope amply supi)ly, 
And we'll drink the spring water that gushes close by. 

Our steeds are recruited— our breakfast is o'er ; 
Up boys, to the saddle, and homeward once more. 
To relieve our dear women from danger's alarms, 
And clasp all the loved ones again in our arms. 

A health to brave women ! the (lueens of the West ! 
Our mothers, wives, sisters— the girls we love best! 
Their hands set the Star on our banner to blaze 
O'er the Rangers who follow McCulloch and Hays. 



328 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



FLORENCE DUVAL WEST. 



LORENCE D. WEST was born in Tullaluisse, Florida. 

Her paternal grandfather was Gov. Wni. P. Duval, of that 
* ^tate, a man remarkable for his great humor, originality, 
kindness of heart, and hospitality. Florence is a daughter of 
Judge Thomas II. Duval, who came to Texas when she was but 
a child. He settled in Austin, where Mrs. West was reared. 
She received her inspiration from the beautiful scenery that 
environs the city nestled among the hills. She was an ardent 
admirer of nature. Even in her childhood, she spent much of 
her time amid the birds and blossoms of springtime. She 
passed many hours among the birds, and made it a special ob- 
ject of her research to ascertain all about tlieir liomes, their 
habits and their nature. Thus her heart was thrilled with un- 
spoken melody and the sweetest feelings of gratitude. All 
great poets have loved the warblers of the woods. From the 
eloquent melody of the groves they have inhaled the inspira- 
tion of their finest strains. Catching up the sweet refrains, echo- 
ing through Nature's leafy haunts, they have woven them into 
iunnortal verse. She loved the eventide, when the shadows 
lengthened eastward, when the calmness of nature threw its in- 
fluence around her. She loved to ramble along the banks of 
the beautiful Colorado as it meandered its course down and 
through its reed-covered banks. When a child she was most 
beautiful ; and at six years of age President Lamar inscribed 
the following beautiful poem to her : 



n" 




FLORENCE DUVAL WEST. 



TO FLOliENCE DUVAL. 

AOK, SIX YEAIIH. 



AY Spring, with her Itcautiful flowers, 
I Is robing the vaUeys and hills ; 
. Sweet music is heard in the bowers, 
And laughter is sent from the rills. 
Oh, let me, while kindled l)y these, 

The feelings of childhood, recall, 
And frame a soft sonnet to please 
The fair little Florence Duval. 

The rose may be proud of its red. 

The lily be proud of its white. 
The sweet-scented jessamines shew 

Their treasure of" fragrant delight ; 
Yet brighter and sweeter than these, 

And far more enchanting to all, 
Is the beautiful pink of Bellemont, 

The fair little Florence Duval. 

Her locks are white as the lint, 

Her eyes are as blue as the sky; 
Her cheeks have a magical tint — ^ 

A rainbow which never would die. 
Oh, surely there's no living thing 

That dwelleth in cottage or hall 
Can vie with the Peri I sing — 

The fair little Florence Duval. 

But why is she resting from play ? 

And why is that tear in her eye ? 
Alas ! a bright bird on the spray 

Is pouring its carol hard by ; 
Her spirit is drinking the song — 

She weeps at the notes as they lall ; 
For genius and feeling belong 
To fair little Florence Duval. 



Oh, long may the Peri bloom on, 

Still ever in gladness and love, 
And blend with her genius for song 
' The feelings that light us above. 

That life may be lengthened and blest, 

And sorrow may never enthrall, 
Must still be the prayer of each breast 

For fair little Florence Duval. 

Mrs. West was the wife of Judge C. S. West, a member of 
that old and responsible law firm of Hancock, West & North, 
and one of the * Supreme Judges. She has written much, but 
not in any particular order. All of her poems have been well 
received. Before her death — November 22nd, 182fl — she was 
talking of collecting her poems and prose sketches together and 
making a large book. She has published two books — The Land 
of the Lotus Eaters, a book of prose sketches, and The Marble 
Lily and Other Poems. Her poem. The Marble Lily, originally 
appeared in the Land We Love, A sketch of Mrs. West's life 
may be found in the Female Writers of the South, by Ida 
Raymond. 

The fact that our Southern authors have written less than our 
Northern cotemporaries is not at all disparaging. The quality 
and not the quantity should be taken into consideration. Mrs. 
West has written less than many, but the quality is of a finer 
nature. I here append a sketch of Mrs. West, prepared by 
Mrs. M. H. Mitchell.for the Amaranth, a magazine published 
by the author of this book during the year of 1882 : — . 

" The grass withers — the tale is ended, 
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended." 

The sadly sweet retrospection, unavoidably indulged in, im- 
perils the accuracy and impartially of a biography when coming 
from one to whom the commemorated friendship has been a 
crown, and whose memories of the lost are scarcely less bright. 



♦Since the above sketch was written, Judge West has resigned his position on the 
Supreme Bench, aud died suddenly at his home in Austin, October 23, 1SS5. 



One naturally hesitates to undertake this, the most delicate of 
all tasks. 

The ground is so sacred to many, who will feel that it has 
been poorly occupied, and will find the livinfi^, glowing, bright- 
hued thoughts of the soul that Hit from memory to memory of 
the lost one, when penned, but maimed and cripi)led things, 
with the down all gone from their wings. Strangers, again, 
willsay that truths are exaggerated and facts pardonably tinted. 
The pass is narrow between Scylla and (liarybdis, and simple 
truth alone can pilot us safely, 

Florence Duval West, wife of Major. C. S. West, daughter of 
the late Thomas H. Duval, and grand-daughter of Gov. Wm. 
P. Duval, was born in Tallahassee, Florida, on September 1, 
1840. At the tender age of five years she was transplanted 
from her own birth-land of flowers to Texas, her parents com- 
ing in 1845 to make Austin their home. Even thus early, her 
life seems to have been invested with that rare magnetic charm 
which afterwards so distinguished her. And Gen. Mirabeau B. 
Lamar, in one of his published " verse memories," celebrated 
the wee, golden-haired child, with her wistful blue eyes and 
sweet voice. The little Florence was beginning then to accu- 
mulate the large circle of friends who now mourn her loss ; 
among them men and women of talent, culture and distinction. 
Adding constantly to her list of friends, she never lost one ; for 
even in her most thoughtless mood her sweet charity, pure as 
the dew of Shirza, never tarnished a name. Of whom else can 
so much be said in this day of gossip and detraction? 

Her voice, exceptionally sweet in speaking, began, according 
to the writer's memory, at the age of thirteen or fourteen to 
give promise of the purely clear and flexible vocal organ after- 
wards widely known in musical circles, and which she used so 
graciously and unsparingly for the pleasure of her friends and 
for the l)enefit of various charities. Her interpretation of 
quaint old Scotch ballads was unu^;ually happ}'- ; and scarcely 



332 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



less so her rendition of such songs as Beethoven's Adelaid, 
Fareivell, and The Lover and the Bird. Possessed of a singu- 
larly retentive memory, her friends found her always ready to 
entertain them with songs, bon-mots, and selections from her 
favorite authors. 

To the many who have enjoyed her pleasant evenings the 
memory of her pathetic ballads will come with added pathos, 
now that the singer is dumb. 

On September 1, 1859, her birth-day, Florence Duval was 
united in marriage to Major Charles S. West, and the conge- 
nial pair at once opened their hospitable doors to a large and 
cultured circle, and the girl of nineteen summers, looking far 
younger with her petit figure, rings of golden hair, and 
charming naivete, took up her sceptre of matron and hostess 
with dignity and assured success. It was her custom, as it 
was also that of her husband, to meet their guests at their 
door with a cordial welcome and a hearty shake of the hand 
and one always left their fireside with bright memories of the 
hours spent there. 

Three bright little boys and one baby girl, in course of years, 
added to the joys and cares of the wife's heart and hands. But 
little Katie bloomed and faded in one short year, and the sor- 
row of the gifted mother murmured its plaint in the chaste 
poem : 

IN MEMORY OF MY LITTLE FLOWER, 




HILE the bright summer lived, my little one, 

Life glowed in thee ; 
But when grim Autumn's cruel work was done, 
Thy soul was free. 

Thy memory lives within this wayward heart. 

It's purest thought ; 
Breathing of Heaven, and the immortal joys 

Thy spirit sought. 



Bead low before the gentle Christ, my child, 

Speak for me there ; 
Pleud fondly, that this weary, longing heart 

Thy rest may share. 

If angel tears will aught avail to me, 

Weep, sweet one, weep ; 
Then may I wake to blessedness with thee 

From this dark sleep. 

Like the bird of Arabia that builds its nest only of sweet 
spices, Mrs. West instinctively collected around her all that 
could please the most refined and critical taste of the home and 
visiting circle. Music, pictures, a well compiled library, and 
her own brilliant conversation, combined to allure and enchain 
her many visitors. 

Many will recall with the writer the well worn desk in its 
sunny corner, with its shelves of choice books above, and the 
tiny child-woman, with her spirituel face and shower of golden 
curls, swiftly writing, as her poetic fancies drifted into 
melodious numbers. Her bold chirography never seemed 
too rapid for the quick mind and active brain. She penned 
her poems as she sang her songs— without an effort. As a 
letter writer she had few, if any equals ; her descriptions of 
persons and scenery being vigorous and concise, and her wit 
bubbling delightfully over her pages. In 1878 she issued a 
private edition of her poems, entitled The Marble Lily, and 
Other Poems, from which many extracts might be made, but we 
call attention to a few among many conspicuous for merit, and 
as giving an insight to the tender nature of the woman and poet 
who chanted her own funeral dirge as she sang : — 

Then that sweet maiden, freed from mortal pain, 
Hid 'neath the flowers her sad and wistful face. 

Prominent for fiinish and delicacy is the subjoined extract 
from the Marhle Lily : — 



334 - Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



A regal lily stands upon the shore, 

Drooping her dew-pearls on the mosses green, 
Her stately forehead, and her bosom pure, 

Bathed in the moonlight's pale and silver sheen. 
The sculptor gazes on the queenly flower 

Until his white cheek burns with crimson flame, 
And his heart owns a sweet and subtle power. 

Stealing like music through his weary frame. 
" Thou art the emblem of m}^ bosom's queen. 

And she, as thou, is formed with perfect grace. 
Stately she n^n^es, with lofty air serene. 

And pure thoughts beaming from her angel face." 
And yet thy bosom holds this silver dew. 

And moonbeams pale with passion for thy sake. 
In fairest marble I'll thy life renew, 

Ere the young daylight bids my life awake. 

And again : — 

How like she seemed, clad in her church-yard dress, 
To that cold flower he chiseled for her sake. 

Spirited and truly poetic is the prayer of the Bee to the 
Flower : — 

Into your young white heart, so dainty sweet. 
Let me but creep till morning comes again. 

And the flower — 

" Folded him among her perfumed leaves, 
And hid him from the moonlight pale and cold; 
And ere the morning sunshine smiled, alas ! 
Her fragrance had departed wiih the bee." 

Seldom does nature endow her children with such versatility 
of talent as she did Florence D. West, leaving her, withal, as 
unaffected as a child. Constant in her friendships, she "cast 
her net ofsymjtathy far and wide," and filled its meslies with 
hearts; attractive to all, her pure inner self was revealed to 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. <^35 



but few, and was not to be understood by stereotyped men and 
women. 

During ber later years she was a great sufferer, and many 
bereavements increased the nervous prostration so common to 
a delicately-strung organism. A year before she passed away 
the bitterest sorrow of her life burst upon her in the death of 
her father. Bent and bruised, the flower never again lifted its 
head ; the sun never shone again. All the care and tenderness 
lavished by her devoted husband and many relatives could 
not divert the spoiler from his prey. And slowly, but surely, 
declined the wife, mother, and friend, until the morning of No- 
vember 22, 1881, when— 

" There fell upon the house a sudden gloom— 
A shadow on those features fair and thin, 
And softlv from that hushed and darkened room 
Two angels issued, where but one went in." 



THE MARBLE LILY. 



Shaking the clouds of marble dust away, 

A youthful sculptor wanders forth alone, 
While tAvilight, rosy with the kiss of day, 

Glows like a wondrous flower but newly blown. 
There lives within his deep and mystic eyes, 

The magic light of true and happy love. 
Tranquil his bosom as the undimmed skies, 

Smiling so gently from the depths above. 

All nature whispers sweet and blissful things. 

To that young heart, rich with emotions warm— 
Ah, rarely happy is the song it sings ; 

And strangely tender, is its witching charm ! 
He wanders to the margin of a lake. 

Whose placid waves lie hushed in sleeping calm, 
So faint the breeze, it may not bid them wake, 

Tho' breathing through their dreams, its odorous balm. 






336 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



A regal lily stands upon the shore, 

Drop})ing her dew-pearls on the mosses green, 
Her stately forehead, and her bosom pnie. 

Bathed in the moonlight's pale and silver sheen. 
The sculptor gazes on the queenly flo^yer, 

Until his white cheek burns with crimson flame. 
And his heart owns a sweet, and subtle power. 

Stealing like music through his wear}' frame. 

The magic influence of his mighty art, 

The magic influence of his mighty love. 
Their mingled passion to his life impart, 

And his deep nature each can widely move. 
These passions sway liis inmost being now, 

His art, his love, are all the world to him ; 
Before the stately flower, ah, see him bow ! 

Breathing the love that makes his dark e3'es dim. 

" Thou art the emblem of my bosom's queen. 

And she, as thou, is formed with perfect grace, 
Stately she moves with lofty air serene 

And pure thoughts beaming from her angel face. 
While yet thy bosom holds this silver dew. 

And moonbeams ]iale with passion for thy sake, 
In fairest marble I'll thy life renew, 

Ere the young daylight l)ids my love awake." 

A wondrous flower shone upon the dark, 

A lily-bloom of marble, pure and cold, 
Perfected in its beauty as the lark 

Soared to the tlrifting clouds of ruddy gold. 
The sculptor fondly clasped the image fair 

To his young ardent heart, then swiftly passed 
To where a lovely face, 'mid floating hair, 

A splendor o'er the dewy morning cast. 

She beamed upon him from the casement's height, 
The fairest thing that greeted the new day — 

He held aloft the lily, gleaming white, 

While tender smiles o'er her sweet features play, 

Presenting his fair gift on bended knee — 

" Wilt thou, beloved, cherish this pure flower? 



'Twas born of moonlight, and a thought of thee, 
And well will grace thy cold and verdant bower. 

And when these blushing blossoms droop and pine, 

Chilled by the cold North wind's icy breath, 
Unwithered still, these marble leaves will shine, 

Calm and serene, untouched by awful death.'" 
The summer days flew by like bright winged dreams, 

Filling those hearts with fancies fond and sweet, 
But when the first frost cooled the sun's warm beams. 

The purest, gentlest one, had ceased to beat. 

HoAV like she seemed, clad in her church-yard dress, 

To that cold flower he chiseled for her sake ! 
What wild despairing kisses did he press, 

On those sealed eyes, that never more shall wake 1 
His clinging arms enfold her once again, 

In one long hopeless passionate embrace, 
Then that sweet maiden, freed from mortal pain, 

Hid 'neath the flowers, her sad and wistful face. 

The world that once was fairy land to him, 

Now seemed a desert waste, of verdure bare — 
He only walked abroad in moonlight dim, 

And shunned the gaudy sun's unwelcome glare — 
Each night he sits beside a small green mound, 

O'er which a marble lily lifts its head 
With trembling dews, and pearly moonbeams crowned. 

Fit emblem of the calm and sinless dead. 

He never tires of this sad try sting place, 

But waits and listens thro' the quiet night — 
' Surely she comes from mystic realms of space, 

To bid my darkened spirit seek the light. 
Be patient, my wild heart ! yon glowing star 

Wears the fond look of her soft, pleading eyes. 
Gently she draws me to that world afar, 

And bids me hush these sad and longing sighs." 

Thus mused he, as the solemn nights passed by, 
Still holding that sweet hope within his soul, 

And always peering in the tender sky, 

With earnest longing for that blissful goal. 



338 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



One radiant night, when summer ruled the land, 
He sought the darling's bed of dreamless rest — 

The wooing breeze his pale cheek softly fanned 
With balmy sighs from gardens of the blest, 

A witching spell o'er that fair scene was cast, 

Thrilling his sad heart with a wild delight ; 
And steeped in visions of the blessed past, 

He gazed upon the Lil}' gleaming white. 
Jewels of diamond dew glowed on its breast. 

And the rich moonlight, mellowy, and intense, 
In golden robes the quiet church-yard dressed, 

Pouring its glory thro' the shadows dense. 

A nightingale flew from a neighboring tree. 

And on the marble lily folds his wings, 
His full heart trembles with its melody — 

Of Love, and Heaven, he passionately sings. 
The sculptor gazing through his happy tears, 

Feels his whole being thrill with sudden bliss, 
An Angel's voice in accents soft he hears, 

And trembles on his lips an Angel's kiss. 

His hope has bloomed ! above the marble flower, 

Radiant with heavenly beauty, see her stand ! 
His heart makes music like a silver shower 

As fondly beckons that soft snowy hand. 
The pallid moon faints in the brightening sky, 

And morning blushes burn o'er land and sea, 
Staining a cold, cold cheek, with rosy dye. 

The sculptor's weary waiting soul is free ! 

As onward glide the years through bloom and blight, 

Unchanged the marble lily lifts its head. 
Through summer's s.un, through winter's snow so white, 

Unheeded sleep the calm and blessed dead. 
Where ever falls the pure and pearly dew, 

Where ever blooms the fresh and fragrant rose. 
In that far world removed from mortal view. 

Two loving souls in perfect bliss repose. 



THE STAR WORSHIPER. 



UT in the solemn night a woman stood, 
And watched the star of Venus, and of Love, 
Ascend with stately steps the clear calm heaven, 
Melting the darkness with its mellow fire. 
To her sad heart came troops of wandering thoughts, 
The melancholy children of the night, 
That lie in ambush to assail the soul, 
That hopes to find in solitude, repose. 
Thoughts of the present, and the future, vexed 
Her less, than dreams of the undying past. 
With aching brow upon her folded arms, 
She tried to dull her ear to its sad plaint. 
But Memory, with meek reproachful looks 
Attended near, Tind so the two remained. 
Vainly the woman closed her weary eyes : 
She could not veil their faces, beautiful 
With tenderness and pathos, that belong 
To the lost years of youth and innocence, 
When Love, and God, were more than mocking shades. 
Around her was the stillness, and the peace, 
Within, the consciousness of endless strife. 
While 3^et she fought against the demon. Thought, 
The mournful north wind's wild, impassioned sighs 
Thrilled her weak soul with premonitions dire, 
And floods of passionate, despairing grief — 
As though a mighty river had o'erleaped its banks 
And turned the green monotony of waving grass 
Into a seething whirlpool, filled with wrecks 
Of all the lovely things, that grew and smiled. 
She listened to that deep complaining cry, 
Uhtil the shadow darkened all her life ; 
And while the low and hopeless sound still dwelt 
Within her inner sense, as in the shell 
Echoes the sad sea's unforgotten tones. 
She raised her eyes — and lo ! upon them shone. 
In soft effulgence, brightness mystical. 
The mellow beams of Love's immortal star ! 



>40 Poets and Poethy ok Tkxas. 



She landed that its tender rays reached down 
And drew hernpwards like caressing arms ; 
And that its throbbing heart had found a voice 
Which said, '"Adoring mortal, worship me!'* 
And then she lifted up her heart and prayed ! 
In the clear heaven it shone without a peer, 
Sorone and holy as a new born thought, 
Fresh from the brain ot' that mysterious Power, 
Whose attributes, we vainly strive to know. 
The lesser stars grew pale before its gaze, 
Until in all the night there seemed but one 
iireat pulsing heart of scintillating light. 
A drop of that imperishable flame", wherewith 
The river of immortal life is tilled. 
From which earth's dying children long to drink- 
She said, "Perhaps at this o'ertlowing fount 
Of Nature's golden wine, I, a poor wj\if. 
An unbeliever, sick with fear and doubt, 
^[ight quati' some cooling drops to soothe mv soul. 
And then she held it up tv^ drink deep draughts 
Of that pure peace, which she so wildly craved. 
Ah, she was happy for a tlceting hour, 
Tp-borne on Fancy's rosv tinted wing! 
Happy and trusting, as a "little child . 
That thinks Heaven lies beyond the distant blue. 
And waits to see it open, so the angels bright 
May flash their glories on his wondering eyes! 
So waited she for the white angel. Peace, 
To float down to her from thatV^lden world. 
And light her dark soul with celestial tire. 
Alas, no blessed revelation came I 
And the poor soaring soul sank back to earth. 
(>)»<• white truth, gleaming like a perfect peal. 
Amid the slackness of its depths profound. 
For sweet and restful voices of the niirht 
Spoke softly to her of the power called Dtath, 
So feared of mortals, yet their gentlest friend— 
Oreat Nature's tenderest and most loving nurse. 
Whose soft, cool touches on the aching eyes. 
And wildly beating heart, brinir instant rest. 
All, gentle mother", kind and p^itiful ! 
Surely thou canst not be a foe to us. 



As sonu! have falsely said, who vainly tell 

Of iinktiown (lei)ths of misery or bliss, 

To which thou hearest our iinniortal breath, 

To bless or curse forever in those realms, 

'i'he poor, blind, stumbling- child of life's brief hour. 

Ah, let us rather trust in Nature's truth, 

And welcome the still night-time that she bi'ings — 

The |)eaceful night-time of Ibrgetful Death ! 

We knew tluni art, and after thee, the dark, 

The cool, calm, restful dark, for every one — 

Ah, let the woman wait with patient faith. 

Knowing tliou surely comest unto all ! 

As the pure dews in darkntsss are distilled, 

And fall in silver drops, all silently 

Into the thirsting hearts of Earth's fair flowers, 

Until thei)' balmy sighs ascend to heaven, 

So, from thy mystic tlarkness, showers of peace 

Descend uj)on the weary, fainting soul. 

As it iloats onward to that blissful land, 

That blessed land, " where all things are forgot ! " 



312 



Poets and Poktky of Texas. 



MRS. M. E. WMITTEN 



RS. MAUrilA KL1/Al?hyril WlirrrMN was hom lu-ar 
-^'l^'ll .the I'ily uf Austin in 1S12. llcr father hiiaiuc a resi- 
* th'ut o( Austin whou she was livt' years of age. !Sho 
was edueateil in her native State, ami was a ehissniale nf Flor- 
eui'e Puval W'l'st.ainl renieinhiTs many pli'asant ineidt'uts in 
hvv life. 

She is a ilaughler of .hulge W. S. llotehkiss, so well known 
in 'Texas. Slie has heen twiee nnuried, ami luis reuied ;i huroe 
I'aniily. It lias hiuMi while ihseharging her donu^stie duties that 
she has written most ol' \\cv poems. When she was si.\ years 
t>ld her father houjiht a traet i»f land near the eity o[' Austin, 
where he huilt a resiileni'e lor his family. In speakinj;- of this 
plonsant retreat, Mrs. Whitten says : "In it wt>re eomhined 
the ehanj;('fnl si-enery of llowery meadow and shaily woodland, 
towering, elilVs and slopinii, hillside, anil all this hnundtul hy a 
bright sparkling stream that laugluui and sang and eharniiul my 
very soul." The attvaetions of this spot dear to her nnide 
musie in her soul, and sl»e has taken it for the tluMue o\' one o( 
her longest and happiest songs — The Old Jloiiu . 

Her mother died when the young pnet was only ten years old. 
•This sad event inspired her lirst poem ; nud, although very im- 
perfeet, it betrayed the latent power nf tiio Pokt. Col.John S. 
Fonl saw in lier the i>riunise oi' the singer, .-md eneoiuageil her 
to ^^ rite, and he [uddished her poems in a pajti r he was editing 
in the liflies. She has eontributeii a great many poems to the 
sei'ular and religious press of tlie eountrv, and is now prepar- 
ing them tor publieation. Tlu*y will likely a[>[iear soiui. 

The poeui t\)r whieh Mrs. Whitten will be most vespeeted by 
the U)vers of simple nudtnly o\' song is The Snotv. This is, per- 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



343 



haps, her best poem, and is worthy of the poet's crown. Miss 
Griswold has written of the Heautifal Siiotv, suggestive of the 
tender and niouinful feelings; but Mrs. Wiiitten lias done all 
this, and more. There is enough genuine poetry in these two 
lines to give an undying lustre to iier i)oeni: — 

It heeds not their tatters but i)ierces througli :dl ; 
God pity the poor when the snowtlakes fall. 

1 give the poem complete from the original manuscript : — 
^^hr^IIlO snow, the snow, oh the beautil'ul show I 



Falling so soltly, so gently below , 
Hiding the rubbish in by-way and street; 
Bridging the road for the traveler's feet — 
(Silently, solemnly eddying down ; 
Robing the hillside, and shrouding the town. 

The snow, the snow, it is with us again ! 
It is drifting in heaps o'er valley and pbun ; 
'Tis spoiling tbc paths our feet loved to tread ; 
Winding its slieet o'er our dear precious (b-ad— 

Whisking, and whirling, and sailing around; 

Filling tbc doorway and whitening the ground. 

The snow, the snow! how we hail its return 
As higher the fires on the hearth-stone burn ; 
The young and the merry with fond hearts .-igjovv 
Welcome thy coming, thou beautiful snow — 
Flitting, and frisking, and Hying about 
'Mid the sleigb-beirK jingle and the scbool-boy's shout. 

The snow, the snow! unsullied it comes. 

In its vesture of white 'tis draping our homes ; 

'Tis hea[jing a grave for the dear dying flowers; 

Wrciithing in beauty this bleak world of ours — 

Till the woodlands sparkle with crystalized gems, 
Where the sun-rays slant through its glittering stems. 

The snow, the snow! 'tis staying the course 
Of the "onward train" with its "fiery horse" 
Snorting and neighing, it boldly defies, 



While deep o'er the track the snow-mountain lies — 
Oh, the snow, the snow, the beautiful snow ! 
What ruin and wreck it can work below I 

The snow, the snow! how its feathery flakes 
Kiss the faces cold of the pure, glassy lakes, 
Till lost on their bosom in rest serene 
The moon looks down on the beautiful scene 

Where the lakes and flakes are blended in one. 
And the Frost King nigns on his ice-girt throne. 

The snow, the snow ! it is hurrying past, 
Borne on the wings of the wild wintery blast j 
Its delicate down is filling the air 
O'er village, and steeple, and city so fair — 
Over the church-yard silent and white 
It gleams like a sceptre abroad at night. 

The snow, the siiow! it is finding its way 
Through the battered hut where the wretched stay ; 
It mocks their wants with a broad cold grin 
As through crevice and crack 'tis hurrying in — 

It heeds not their tatters, but pierces through all ; 

God pity the poor when the snow-flakes tail. 

The snow, the snow! the pitiless snow ! 

Unheeding the pauper bereft and low, 

He dies alone in the cold dreary street 

With naught but the snow for his winding sheet, 
Like an angel kind with delicate wing 
It bears him away to the home of the King. 

The snow, the snow ! by wayward winds toss'd, 

Soon in the mire of the street to be lost, 

An emblem thou art of man's primitive state, 

Ere yet the drawn sword guarded Eden's lone gate; 

But more than an Eden in Christ is regained 
Since the Cross in His hallowed blood was stained. 

The snow, the snow! wafting drearily by. 
Bringing sweet thoughts of the dwellers on high, 
Who, spotless and pure and unsullied by sin, 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 345 



Througli the " beautiful gates" are gathering in; 

Blest boon for the fallen ! 'J'h rough Christ they may 

rise 
As pure as the snow when it falls from the skies. 

Mrs. Whitten's elegy on the death of Dr. Manning is very 
touching .The circumstances attending his death were sad, and 
cast a gloom over the entire State. Against the protestations 
of his friends he embarked for the scene of the yellow fever ep- 
idemic September 3, 1878, and died of that dread malady a few 
days after reaching Holly Springs, Mississippi. Amiable and 
affable in heart and manners, he made friends of all who knew 
him ; and when the news reached Austin that ho was dead, 
Mrs. Whitten gave vent to her feelings of pity and compassion 
in the following memorial lines : — 

^li|EEP, Austin, weep ! In sackcloth veil thy head, 
^IJI (I And breathe thy sorrow for thy noble dead ; 
nn' Ilis name embalm with fadeless glory blest 

And fold his memory to thy chastened breast. 

Weep, Austin, weep ! Thy Manning is no more ! 
No braver soldier e'er his ensign wore. 
Hero of heros ! He, thy champion dies 
At duty's post — a willing sacrifice. 

His glorious life has ended but too soon; 
His "star of destiny" has set at noon ; 
Scarce could we spare him — so gifted his mind, 
Minister of mercy to his sorrowing kind. 

Not as the warrior whose reeking foes 
By conquered thousands greet his last repose ; 
Not as the chieftain with his comrades dies, 
Viewing his dripping scalps— his life-bought prize. 

Ah no ! not blood his fair escutcheon stained — 
Love was the weapon that his laurels gained ; 
Let history's page his valiant deeds recall. 
And nations learn how Christian heroes fall. 

83 



346 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



Where the Mississippi in its grandeur flows, 
There comes a voice freighted with human woes — 
A wail of anguish, like a funeral dirge 
From bleeding hearts, portrays the dreadful scourge. 

The call for " help " from that once crowded mart, 
Fired his warm blood and stirred his gen'rous heart ; 
He, yielding to that helpless, pleading cr}'-, 
Resolved to succor, or with them to die. 

Oh, let his name beside those patriots stand, 
Who scorned to die — a brave, unconquered band ; 
And where 'tis told how valiant Fannin fell ; 
Of him, the martyr, let the record swell. 

The scroll that bears a Crockett's honored name, 
Or tells of Travis and his blood-bought fame. 
Should by these find our Manning's name a place ; 
They for their country died — he for his race. 

Sweet be his rest ! May holy angels keep 
Their silent vigils where his ashes sleep ; ' 
And when for us death's messenger shall call, 
At duty's post may ive, like Manning, fall. 

Mrs. Whitten's longest poem — The Dear Old Home — spoken 
of elsewhere in this sketch, has many admirers. It is highly 
descriptive, and establishes the ability of the author as a writer 
of poems of place. It is too long to give complete, and I can 
scarcely give extracts from it without impairing its beauty. 







YOUNG. 



i;^ TTENTiON ia more readily excited by the momentary 
JK/ coruscations of the meteor than by the steady light of the 
abiding star. It is not the gonius uniform and symmetrical 
in its productions, that gains the meed of popular applause and 
achieves immortality, but rather some abnormal condition of 
mind winning distinction in a special line and often by a single 
act. Thus the universal splendor of the genius of George 
Elliot shone only from a single point in the literary heavens. 
Her greatness was special ; and this was the principal cause of 
her wide-spread and far-reaching praise. The author of St. 
Elmo Avould have remained within the radius of that social 
environment to which destiny had assigned her, had not the 
idiosyncrasy of her genius, like a light from behind the clouds, 
broken forth in the singularity of its effulgence. It is not that 
which is common to all cultured minds that engages the pop- 
ular esteem, but rather that which is anomalous in character, 
and often prodigious in its manifestations. 

The real greatness of Mrs. Maud J. Young, the subject of 
this sketch, was uniform ; and this fact affords explanation of 
the limits of her fame and of the ardor of her admirers, within 
the orbit of her movement. 

To nature's endowment, education had added the stores of 
knowledge and refinement, which gave to her intellect a singu- 
larly rounded and well balanced character. When the literary 
antiquarian of the ages to come shall weigh the Legend of Sour 
Lake in the balances of criticism, the real worth of Mrs. Young, 
as a poet, will be better known. The keen discontent of that 
future day, when observations will be taken in the interest of 
truth only, will assign to her a place in the galaxy of enduring 



348 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



lights, and not in the fitful glare of the transient meteor. This 
work, more tlian any other of this lady, shows her literary tal- 
ent. Her work on botany, illustrated chietly from the ilora of 
Texas, is more elaborate and scientific; and her Cordova dis- 
plays more sentiment ; but the Legend, for its conception and 
beauty of design, will probably maintain the first rank in the 
circles of pure literature. The testimony of an able cotempo- 
rary is given in this strong but truthful language : — 

''The Legend of Sour Lake, hy Mrs. M. J. Young, is really one 
of the finest prose poems we have read for many a day. Though 
not in verse, it is genuine poetry from beginning to end. Would 
that all the wild and beautiful legends of our wide field of poetic 
treasures — Texas — could be put in enduring form by this liter- 
ary artist. This romantic Indian tradition, so beautifully ren- 
dered, and whose glorious symbolism, is so happily applied to 
the instruction of the Southern people will not die." 

Several essays and contributions appearing in the periodicals 
of her day, attested her ability and worth as a writer. The 
last of these, over the signature of Patsy Pry, appeared in the 
Houston Post, not long before her death. So characteristic was 
this series — it being quoted and commented upon throughout 
the State — the author could not be hid. 

Her devotion to Southen society and institutions gave her a 
prominence in the war between the States. The Confederate 
Lady, a fond sobriquet given to her in testimony of the high 
esteem in which she was held, became well known to the rank 
and file of Southern soldiery. She was true to her friends, 
without bitterness to her foes. Her statesmanship was only 
equaled by her patriotism, both of which she possesed in an 
uncommon degree, for one of her sex. 

Mrs. Young, nee Miss Fuller, was a native of Beauford, 
Korth Carolina, a daughter of Col. N. Fuller. Paternally she 
was related to the Rolfs, the Randolphs and the Boilings, of 
Virginia; and maternally to the Dunbars, the Braggs and th; 
Braxtons, of the same State, and of Maryland. She was mar- 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 349 



ried in her twentieth year to Dr. S. 0. Young, of South Caro- 
lina, a gentleman honorably related and of learning' and re- 
finement. He died during the first year of their wedded life. 
The young widow devoted her life to the education of her son 
of posthumous birth, the fruit of her brief married life. At 
Houston, where for a long time she lived, she was a ruling 
spirit of all grades and ages of society. Moving in queenly 
grace among the people, her black eyes flashing with intelli- 
gence, her voice like the strains of the Eolian harp, gave solace 
to the sorrowing, and cheer to the merry. Her hands deftly ar- 
ranged the crescent of orange blossoms for the bride, and wove 
the cross of immortelles for the casket. 

She was born on the first of November, 182G, and died in 
Houston, Texas, April 15, 1882. 

The most extensive estimate of Mrs. Young's genius I have 
seen, appears in Living Female Writers of the South, by Ida Ray- 
mond. Material for a sketch of Mrs. Young is plentiful, but I 
have few of her poems from which to select. Her Greeting to 
Hood's Brigade is one of her highly prized poems, and I repro- 
duce it here : — 

GREETING TO HOOD'S BRIGADE. 



'OT with the tramp of martial train 

And the stirring roll of drum. 
Not with the trumpet's proud refrain 
Do you, our heroes, come. 

But we greet you with a gladsome pride. 
In your pure and spotless fame. 

No victor's crown could add a ray 
To the lustre of the name 

Of Hood's Brigade. Its falchion's light 
Streams far o'er land and sea ; 



POKTS AND POKTUY OK TeXAS. 



The (load l>i\ oimood on a lunuirod fields — 
Tho sontinol's now wilh Loo. 

Your own triio hoarts and dauntloss arms 

llavo oovorod it with glory, 
And whilo a Southornor troads tho soil 

It will livo in ^on-;- and story. 

Toaoo has hor viotorios, too, and those 

Yon havo most nohly won — 
Tho Ijoritauo oi' agos i>uro, 

l>oqnoatho«l iVtMu siro to son. 

'rht> primipU^s of sovonty-six. 

Tliough lost upon tho liohl, 
Aro yot sustainod in t'aith hy you, 

Who oanniM, will not yiold. 

Tho mounds that strow i>in- nativo land 

.\ro watohod by lloavon ahovo, 
From Sharpshnri: to tho Kio liraiulo, 

Thoy'vo shrinod in ondl\>s8 lo\o. 

^Vo think ot" thom — thought oan't ho hound : 
Wo wopt — toars oan't ho stayoil : 

lUit (ilory koops hor sontinol-watoh 
Ahovo t>aoh bloody gravo. 

Wo ploiliio thot\i now. in thoir warrior's rost, 
And again wo plodgo oaoh othor ; 

Thank (iod ! s»> inany livo today 

To say : " C»od bloss you, brothor ! " 

Tnoovor all ! I'p to your t'oot 

Wo'vo guosts yo oannot soo ; 
The dead lutre heard o\n' lonei roll call, 

And auswered it with Lee. 



Thoy'ro horo ; soul orios it unto soul ; 

Tlioy soo and lovo us yot ; 
Living and doad togothor stand. 

And neither ean forget. 



Poets and Poetiiy of Texas. 351 



MISCELLANEOUS, 



Under this licii(] I kIimII collect the names of a large number 
of writers who have written and published poems, but do not 
claim the poet's gift. I shall not conform to any particular 
order, but notice them as they appear to my mind, 

MR. KLMOllE I>. FORSIIEY. of Dallas, Texas, has published 
several poems of merit. My Heart's Lost Love occupies about 
thirty pnges of a neat pamphlet. Besides this poem, he has 
published Fashion's Fallacies, The Modern Ship, and yl Mast 
Incident. All of these have appeared in pamhlct form under 
the mmic o( Frromell, which is his nom deplume. Mr. Forshey 
was born in Fayette county, November 9th, 18G1 . He has been 
newspaper reporter, civil engineer, and railroad man. lie is 
married and has one child. 



MRS. JENNIE BLAND BEAUCHAMP, of Denton, Texas, has 
written a number of poems. Some of them deserve preservation. 
She has i)ublished one or two prose works, which sold well. 
At present she is President of the Texas Department of the 
Woman's Christian Temperance Union, and is laboring for suf- 
fering humanity. 



MJSS LIZZIE SMITH LEAVELL, of San Marcos, Texas, un- 
der the pen name of " Bessie Smith," has recently published, in 
tlie Free Press (San Marcos) and the Courier-Journal (Louisville, 
Kentucky), several poems which show a healthy intellect, a 
warm heart, and a big brain. She has a bright future before her. 
She is a native of Kentucky, but moved to San Marcos, Texas, 



CDiHBB 



352 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



in 1876, where she has since resided. I have seen perhaps a 
dozen of Miss Leavell's poems, and give Waiting as a sample 
of those I have read : — 

I am Availing in the meadow, 

While the evening shadows fall; 
While the sunset's golden splendors 

Fade away heyond recall. 
O'er the earth a dewy fragrance 

Flings a mantle, sparkling, hright, 
Quivering with an untold heauty, 

Flashing hack the waning light. 

Meet me, darling, I am waiting 

'Neath the sighing asj)cn tree ; 
Round me winds of eve aresweei)ing, 

Whispering to my heart of thee. 
Hasten, on my lips are burning 

Words I would to thee impart ; 
Truest love and hope are beating 

In my restless, throbbing heart. 

Now the darkening world is sleeping, 

Resting from all grief and care, 
Now the silent stars are gleaming 

On her tranquil bosom fair ; 
But my heart is growing weary, 

And a pang akin to woe 
Steals u])on me in the gloaming, 

WHiile the shadows come and go. 

But I know you will be faithful, 

Well 1 know you will be true ; 
In your heart a kindred feeling, 

Like the love I bear to you. 
8o I'll cease from all repining. 

Banish every doubt and fear. 
For through the fragrant summer gloaming 

I can feel your presence near. 



COL. J. L. GAY, of Round Rock, is a writer of verses. He 
has published several very clever poems, which have made his 
name familiar to the readers of the State. He writes for 
amusement alone, and does not claim the name of the poet. 



.MISS CLAUDIA M. GIRADEAU, of Houston, Texas, has 
published several poems which possess merit. In the Gems from 
a Texas Quarry, Mrs. Steuart gave two of her poems, which in- 
dicate poetic ability. She does not desire fame, and places a 
light estimate on her work. She is a South Carolinian by birth, 
but has resided in Texas a number of years. Her father, Prof. 
T. J. Girardeau, is one of the most finished scholars and liter- 
ary writers of the State, and has been connected with the press 
in Houston for a number of years ; most of the time on the 
Post. 



L. W. SCOTT, a minister of the Christian Church, has pub- 
lished one or more works that indicate literary ability. He 
published a small volume of poems a few years ago which was 
severely criticized by the press of the State. He has also pub- 
lished a book of Christian Evidences. He resides at Sulphur 
Springs. 



MRS. R. L. GORDON, a resident of Williamson county, 
Texas, has published quite a number of very clever poems. 
She is a lady of means and of literary refinement. She is 
speaking of collecting her poems and publishing them soon. 



MRS. CLARA BOONE JORDAN, now residing near Mor- 
gan, Texas, was born in Bremond, Texas. She began to write 
poems when a school girl, and gained a local reputation as a 
sprightly and intelligent singer. She married a Mr. Jordan in 
1880. Mr. Jordan is a preacher of the Baptist denomination, 
who, since his marriage, has been teaching. 



354 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 



MR. A. C. MONSON, a resident of Austin, Texas, and a 
well known newspaper man, has written quite a number of 
poems showing the elements of the Poet. He is a clever story- 
teller, and is a regular contributor to several of the leading 
weeklies. He also published a play in 1883, which was accep- 
ted by a traveling company, but I do not think it has ever been 
utilized. 



MRS. LAURA GRICE PENUEL, of Hearne, Texas, has 
published some exquisite gems of poetry. She is a South Caro- 
linian, and came to Texas early in the seventies. She assisted 
Dr. Royall as teacher in Baylor University for several years. 
She has resided in Hearne about ten years, and is a widow. 
She is engaged in teaching, and has the reputation of being a 
superior literary instructor. 



MR. I. II. JULIAN, of San Marcos, Texas, has written beauti- 
fully of his early youth and its charms. He came to Texas from 
Indiana about a dozen years ago, and began the publication of 
the Free Press, at San Marcos. He is a vigorous writer, and a 
man of fine literary judgment. His paper is one of the best 
county papers of the State. He has done a great deal to de- 
velop the country around San Marcos, and deserves the success 
he has achieved. 



MR. THOMAS BROWER PEACOCK has published two 
volumes of poems. He was quite a while a resident of Kaufman 
countj"^, Texas; but for some years has resided in Kansas. 
Although for a time a resident of Texas, his poems, strictly 
speaking, do not belong to Texas ; yet he is recognized by our 
readers as a Texan, as many of his most delicate sentiments 
were created here. Mr. Peacock is of a splendid family, with 
an intellect superior to his surroundings. He is an industrious 




worker, and will gain an undying lustre if fortune will spare 
him a short time to adorn this life. One of his sweetest poems 
was written on the death of his brother, Dr. W. C. Peacock, 
who died September 14, 1885. 



MISS MAY E. GUILLOT, of Dallas, Texas, bids fair to 
gain celebrity as a writer of poems. She has already made her 
name familiar to the reading people of Texas by her frequent 
poetic contributions. Some of her poems have been very 
kindly received by the press, and show taste and poetic spirit. 
She was born in Dallas in 1865, and \Vas educated in her native 
city. She is the poetess of the Texas Press Association 
and is a general favorite of the editorial fraternity. I give one 
of her poems — Venice : — 

The dusky gloom of the eastern seas, 

A boat song Uoating in the breeze. 

The purling dip of oars afar, 

The twinkling of a rosy star. 

The darkling lights and shadows met, 

And Venice slept in silhouette. 

A blonde moon, looking wan and white, 
On towers that rise, fantastic, bright, 
Like genii temples, vast and dim, 
From out the Eastern ocean's rim. 
Their palisades with foamings wet, 
Their towers outlined in silhouette, 

A villa wrapped in light and shade, 
A group of boats, a serenade, 
A fair face peeping from above. 
A wild, sweet Tuscan song of love. 
The sound of lute and castanet, 
The players outlined in silhouette. 

A balcony, a terrace high. 
The eastern dancers floating by. 
A drowsy hum, the sleepy breeze 
Flings melting music to the seas. 




Wild snatches from the minuet, 
Light, graceful forms is silhouette. 

A tropic garden, gloom below. 
The tinkling plash of fountain flow, 
A floating gleam of laces white, 
A rippling burst of laughter light, 
The faint, sweet smell of mignonette, 
Bright eastern maids of silhouette. 

A cavalier, so brave and gay, 

A maiden fair as sylph or fay ! 

A flying boat, the dimpled gleams 

Of tangled moonlight o'er it streams ; 

And where the gloom and moon-gleams met, 

Two shadows kissed in silhouette. 



MRS. FANNIE SPEAR YOUNG, of Longview, Texas, is 
author of quite a number of poems which she has contributed 
to the religious press of the State,. She is ambitious to a fault, 
but has a sacred love for piety and all religious works. She 
was born in Mississippi in 1844, and came to Texas in 1859. 



COL. JNO. F. ELLIOTT, of the Herald, Dallas, has pub- 
lished some very worthy poems. He disclaims the title of 
poet, but deserves it. 



AWANA H. K. PAINTER, of San Antonio, Texas, has, in 
the Gems from a Texas Quarry, a beautiful poem entitled The 
Blue and the Gray. I have no further knowledge of this 
author. This poem is in the right vein, and shows power. 



DR. SAM HOUSTON, oldest son of Gen. Sam Houston, has 
written more than a dozen poems which are worth preserving. 
The Writing on the Wall is his longest and, perhaps, his best 
poem. He is a resident of Waco. 



Poets and Poetry op Texas. 857 



MRS. A. H. MOHL, a well known Washington correspon- 
dent, and who resides ai Houston, has written quite a number 
of very creditable poems. Her poem— An Army with Green 
Banners— is a very clever one. She spends most of her time 
in Washington City, where she is a press correspondent. 



ELLA S. JOHNSON, of Houston, has two short poems in 
Mrs. Steuart's Gems From a Texas Quarry. These are the 
only poems I have seen from her pen, and, judging from these, 
she has genius and a fair promise. 



MRS. M. J. BENTLEY, of Denison, has also published some 
very creditable poems. 

W. A. BOWEN, known to the public almost exclusively by 
his pseudo-name, "Ike Philkins," is one of the most widely 
known correspondents at the State Capital. He has gained 
reputation in several departments of letters, and by most all 
of the readers of the State is known either as humorist, poet, 
or correspondent. He is one who uses his eyes and writes of 
what he has seen. He possesses the happy faculty of seizing 
the essential features of measures and the ability of presenting 
them in a clear and vigorous style. Mr. Bowen is a native of 
Florida, and is just thirty years of age. He has written quite 
a number of creditable poems. His longest one— ^ New Year 
-Eye— contains forty-six spencerian stanzas. His poems have been 
published in the Atlantic and Scrihnerh Monthly and various 
periodicals both North and South. In 1880 he published his 
only hoo]^.— Chained Lightning— a. book of humor. About the 
first substantial recognition of his merits came from Mr. Knox 
of the Texas Siftings, who boldly engaged him to write a story 
for his paper. His amazing fertility of invention in this 
department of literature is seen in the fact that he has pub- 
lished over a hundred stories in newspapers, exclusive of his 
essays and poems. He is a married man, and resides in Austin. 



MR. STEPHEN CUMMINGS, a resident of Austin, Texas, 
although claiming no distinction as a poet, has written some 
very beautiful poems. He is a native of Maryland, where he 
was born in 1810. He came to Texas in 1839, and has since re- 
sided here. He is a printer b}'^ trade, and followed it for a long 
time after his arrival here. He taught school a while ; took 
part in the "Archive War." He was county surveyor of 
Travis county for one term, and during his term of oHice he 
established the line between Bexar ami Travis counties. He 
was elected County Judge of Travis county, and during his official 
career was married to Miss Mary G. Rowe. In 1850 he accepted 
a clerkship in the General Land Office, under S. Crosby. He 
remained there about ten years. Began ranching in William- 
son county, but soon abandoned it, and returned to the General 
Land Office, under Joseph Spence. During all this time, Mr. 
Cummings continued to write poems, which were published in 
the secular press. I present one from his i)en : 

ON RECEIPT OF A GARLAND OF FLOWERS. 



That precious nosegay, clothed in white. 

In [unk and red and blue, 
We cherished kindly day by day. 

But grieved at its waning hue. 

Awhile it blooui'd, its leaves were green, 

'Twas nourished by my side, 
But soon, alas ! 'twas plainly seen. 

The lovely flowers had died. 

Yet still in memory's shrine they bloom. 
They live in freshness there, 

Although their fate may yield a gloom, 
And cause a falling tear. 



E. J. WEBB, of Columbus, Texas, has contributed one or 
two poems of merit to the State press. I have nothing from 
his pen before me. 



Poets and Poetry of Texas. 359 



MRS. M. JOSEPHINE WILLIAMS is another one of those 
contributors to literature whose productions deserve recogni- 
tion. SIio was a Miss Hargrove, and w;ib born in Florida, and 
was married in Louisiana to Dr. Jatnes N. Williams, who moved 
to Texas, and practiced his profession in San Antonio and Gon- 
zales, lie died in the hitter city in 18GS. She had never at- 
tempted authorship until after the death of her husband. She 
taught school for several years, and was connected with Marvin 
College at one time. She lived in Dallas and wrote for the pai)ers 
there. After this she went to St. Louis, and resides there now, 
and is engaged upon the St. Loui§ Republican. She has had 
some experience as a public reader, and has read in the largest 
cities in the State. Her sketches of travel are spicy and full of 
enthusiasm. The few poems we have seen from her pen evince 
a vein of poetic feeling. The one presented in this volume 
was written in 18G9 : 

A HOME SCENE. 



Twilight crept in at the window, 
Fire-light flashed on the wall. 
Shimmered and shone on the carpet, 

A fitful, quivering ball. 
And out on the hush of the twiligVit, 

A mother's voice came low, 

A measured, monotone lullaby. 

Murmuring, musical, slow : 

" Rest, baby, rest ! 

Sweet on my breast 

All tranquil lie. 
Plush, darling, hush ! 
And list to the rush 

Of the wind creeping by." 

Twilight was lost in the night-time, 
And fitfully sparkled the fire ; 

And the song of^ the mother grew softer, 
Far sweeter than quartette or choir. 



And tlie father, who paused at the wicket, 

Caught the sound of her murmuring voice- 
The cares of the day were forgotten. 
And his worn, weary heart did rejoice. 
"Sleep, bahy sleep, 
While kind angels keep 

Guard o'er thy rest. 
Tender blue eyes, 
Clear as the skies. 
Sink gently to rest." 

The baby, now hushed into (juiet, 

Was laid in its cradle to rest ; 
The mother slow turned from her wooing, 

And quick hid the snow of her breast. 
And siiadovv now darkened the pathway, 

And shadowed the dusk at the door — 
Two hands joined in love near the ingle, 

Kept sacred by trust evermore ! 



I now bring the Poets and Poetry of Texas to an end. In 
doing so, I wish to express my thanks to those who have been 
kind enough to assist me in collecting material for this work. 
I am especially under obligations to Judge IJallinger, of Gal- 
veston, and Rev. John Albert Murphy, of Austin, for assist- 
ance rendered me in securing data for several of my sketches. 

'1 his book, like many others, has in it the customary typo- 
graphical errors. I regret their appearing, but they could not 
be avoided. 



^O— 



